Dragon Age Inquisition: Faith
by nlans
Summary: Cecily Trevelyan loves The Tale of the Champion, but she knows she's no Juliet Hawke. She's cautious, shy, and would never have picked herself to save the world. Unfortunately, it doesn't look like she has a choice. Mage Trevelyan/Cullen. Minor updates from version posted at AO3 and Wattpad.
1. Chapter 1

_This is the story of Juliet Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall._

 _It is also the story of the men and women who stood at the Champion's side as she became a legend. Her brother Carver, who fought to find his own path. Aveline Vallen, a warrior and protector without equal. Isabela, a charismatic pirate trapped in Kirkwall by a shipwreck—among other things. Merrill, a Dalish elf whose kind heart carried a dangerous obsession. Fenris, a former slave whose desire to escape his past was matched only by his hatred of magic. Plus a charming dwarf with a deadly crossbow and a heart of gold—that would be me._

 _And, of course, Anders._

 _I'll have more to say about Anders._

 _Almost everyone in Thedas has an opinion about the Champion. I have heard her called a hero and a traitor, a savoir and a coward, a rebel and a pawn._

 _My name is Varric Tethras, and I am honored to call her my friend._

* * *

"What're you reading?"

Cecily looked up, startled, and grabbed for the pommel of her saddle. Reading and horseback riding weren't necessarily the best combination, but she had to do something to keep her mind off their destination.

Kallian had steered her horse up next to Cecily's and was looking quizzically over her shoulder. " _The Tale of the Champion_? Again? Which part?"

"The Kirkwall rebellion," Cecily admitted. "I'm at the part where the Templar officer breaks ranks and defends the Champion. Do you think that really happened?"

"Sure, Cecy. A Templar officer stepped in to defend an apostate during a mage rebellion. And nugs can fly, and Lake Calenhad is filled with chocolate," Kallian said, rolling her eyes. "The author just made that up so the Chantry wouldn't accuse him of being anti-Templar. If there were Templars like that we wouldn't need this bloody Conclave."

Cecily sighed and slipped the book back into her saddlebag. "You never were one for comforting illusions, Kalli. I suppose if he were real, Varric Tethras would have included his name."

"Oh, don't look like I've told you Winterfair is cancelled. If you need a distraction, why not flirt with some of the mercenaries? They're a good-looking bunch, as sellswords go." Kallian's eyes crinkled merrily.

Cecily laughed. "As if I could draw their attention when you're around," she teased. Kallian had been her first friend in the Circle—the clever elf had been the only one willing to reach out to the haughty newcomer with the famous last name. That was Kalli all over, charming and at ease with anyone.

Kallian shrugged playfully. "I can't help being irresistible, you know that." But then her smile shifted into a more serious expression. "Cecy ... what do you think will happen at the Conclave?"

Cecily pulled her coat closer and let out her breath; the puff of air coiled through the winter cold. "I don't know," she admitted. "We must do all we can to help Divine Justinia see our side. We're told she's sympathetic to the complaints that led to the rebellion, and surely she will agree that invoking the Rite at a Circle like ours went too far."

She had tried to start with her hopeful thoughts, but her optimism sounded false, even to her. She slumped a bit in her saddle. "Truthfully, though? Things may be too far gone for reconciliation. We have to try. But not even the Divine may be enough to end this war."

Kalli sighed. "That's what I think too," she said, resignation clear on her face. "Shit. You're better than I am at politics. I was hoping I was wrong."

"The Maker can hear you swear, Kallian," Cecily said primly. It had been one of the first things Cecily had ever said to Kalli, and it was now a joke between them.

Kallian laughed dutifully, but Cecily could tell her attention was focused ahead of them, on the Temple of Sacred Ashes, now just a few short miles away.


	2. Chapter 2

_When Bartrand looked at Hawke, he saw a shabby Ferelden apostate. I saw a potential business partner. Sure, she didn't have two coppers to rub together when we met, but she was focused and determined; she could get the coin. I knew Bartrand was underestimating her._

 _As it turned out, I was as well._

* * *

Cecily rubbed her hands together, wishing she had gloves, and then scolded herself for being upset over cold fingers. She hadn't even begun to process any of this—the mark on her hand, the tear in the sky, the monsters, or the lingering suspicion that a lot of people around her wanted her dead.

Well, she was used to people wanting mages dead on general principle. But now they wanted _her_ dead, specifically. _That_ was new and unwelcome.

So she tried to boil her day down to its simplest form. _The rift releases demons. Demons are bad. Get to the big rift, fix the big rift, and no more demons. No demons will be good._

 _Maker, please let this work._

"You all right there?" the dwarf asked.

"Oh yes. Just thinking," Cecily said, trying to keep her voice bright.

The dwarf—Varric—looked up at her curiously. Cecily wondered how he'd broken his nose. "So … if you don't mind me asking, how exactly did you survive that explosion?"

"I have no idea," Cecily sighed, feeling the ice ahead of her with one foot before trusting her weight to it. "I don't remember. I was at the Conclave, and then the next thing I knew I was in a cell with this thing on my hand." She flexed her left fingers. It still felt as if her palm were trying to split itself in half.

Varric shook his head. "That's where they've got you. You should have just made up a story. Easier for them to understand, and less likely to result in premature execution."

Behind them, Cassandra made a disgusted noise and started to say something, but Cecily wasn't entirely listening. The comment about stories …

"Maker's breath!" she gasped. "You're _that_ Varric Tethras!"

Varric gave her a strange look. "Um. Which Varric Tethras is that?"

" _The Tale of the Champion_! I didn't put it together until just now, what with the demons and everything." Cecily beamed. "I can't believe it. I read your book—maybe dozens of times. Is that really what the Champion is like? That funny, and brave, and …"

Varric grinned, clearly enjoying her hero-worship. "Well, I did my best, and it turned out pretty well if I say so myself. Hawke's hard to capture on paper, though. She _is_ funny, and brave, and she makes dealing with the craziest shit look almost easy. But she's also got flaws like anyone else. For one thing, she's terrible at Wicked Grace."

"What about her other friends? Do you know what happened to them?" Cecily knew she sounded about fourteen, and didn't care.

"I keep in touch. Daisy—er, Merrill is still in the Kirkwall area. She's helping elves who were made homeless during the fighting. Aveline's still in Kirkwall too, with her husband Donnic. I think the city would fall into the sea if she quit the Guard. Isabela went back to the Raiders and is calling herself Admiral now, but it might be that she just has a really big hat. Hawke's brother Carver was off on Warden business in the Anderfels last I heard. And Fenris has been putting his energy into fighting the Tevinter slavers who came south to prey on Kirkwall refugees."

For some reason, Cassandra stiffened at the mention of the last name. "You did not mention you had been in contact with the elf. Are they still together, Fenris and the Champion?"

The dwarf side-eyed her warily. "They left Kirkwall together. But it's hard to predict those two. Like I said, Seeker, I'm not sure where Hawke is now."

"Would _he_ know where she is, by any chance?" the Seeker asked, her tone cold.

"He might. If you want to find him, you can probably just follow the trail of corpses." Varric smirked a bit. "But I really don't recommend trying to bring _him_ in for questioning. He takes being shackled badly, for some reason."

"I thought you brought Varric in to ask him about Anders," Cecily said, turning to Cassandra. "And to have him testify at the Conclave. You're looking for the Champion? Why?"

She couldn't keep all of her outrage from her voice. It was easy to guess what the Seekers of Truth wanted from Thedas's most famous apostate—probably to see her clapped in irons and executed for her part in the mage rebellion.

 _Or made Tranquil._ Cecily's stomach churned.

"You admire the Champion, I take it?" Cassandra said, narrowing her eyes.

There was no point in denying it. Cecily gave a single nod. "She was an apostate in a city whose Templars have—er, had—a well-established reputation for overzealousness, even brutality. She took a tremendous personal risk when she confronted the Arishok, using her magic with all of Kirkwall's elite watching."

"Not to mention the part where she fought a giant Qunari warlord and won," Varric added.

Cecily suppressed a smile; that had been her favorite part of the _Tale._ "I don't agree with what Anders did," she continued. "Many mages don't. But the Knight-Commander had no justification for invoking the Rite of Annulment over the actions of a single apostate. As for Hawke, she could have fled the city, left us—left them to their fate. She stayed and fought and tried to help. So yes, I admire her."

Cassandra tapped her fingers on her sword pommel. She seemed to be considering how to respond. Finally, she said, "I do as well."

Cecily didn't bother to hide her surprise. "You do? The Templars at Ostwick all insisted that Hawke was a traitor, that her goal all along was to cause the rebellion."

Cassandra nodded. "I believed that once. But Varric convinced me that the official story is … inaccurate."

"Well, I'm glad something came out of our little chats, Seeker," Varric said wryly.

"Our Knight-Commander even banned your book, Varric. It was the first thing I bought after our Circle fell. Well, second, after the winter coat," Cecily admitted.

The memory of those days after they'd escaped the Circle quickly erased her good mood. After the declaration at Andoral's Reach, their Knight-Commander had invoked the Rite. Cecily had known Leonard was more distrustful of mages than his predecessor, but even so, she hadn't expected such a swift and brutal reaction. Ostwick had been a quiet Circle and most of the mages there had never even thought about using their magic as a weapon.

And yet somehow, many of them had escaped with their lives—only to lose them at the Conclave.

 _Lydia. Kalli._

She was aware that everyone else was looking at her, and she felt her cheeks flush. "I suppose I lost my copy when the rift opened," she said quietly, swallowing hard.

Varric's expression was sympathetic; he seemed to sense that the book wasn't the loss on her mind. "Tell you what. If we survive the big rift I'll get you another one. My publisher will send as many copies as I ask for."

Cecily smiled a bit. "Thank you, Varric. I would like that."


	3. Chapter 3

_After she worked off her debt to Meeran, Hawke's first and most important goal in Kirkwall was getting her family out of her uncle Gamlen's house. An understandable desire. I once spent an evening at Gamlen's home in Lowtown and there were no fewer than five knocks at the door, all delivered by people who wanted to break Gamlen's legs over some debt or another._

 _Hawke would tell a joke at Gamlen's expense and charm the visitors into believing her uncle was just hours away from paying them back. If that didn't work, Carver would stand up, reach for his sword, and brag about something he'd done with the Red Iron. When the creditors left, the two of them would exchange a worried look as soon as Leandra wasn't watching.  
_

 _Moving Leandra out of Lowtown might have been the only thing the Hawke siblings agreed on. More often than not the two were squabbling. Hawke cast a long shadow and Carver was desperate to leave it, desperate to be something other than "Hawke's brother." Since he didn't know how he was going to do that, Carver would pick fights with his sister just to prove that he could. For her part, Hawke had a habit of telling her younger brother what to do and when to do it; it was easy to see how that could get annoying.  
_

 _But when it came right down to it either of them would have died to protect the other._

* * *

Cullen had no idea what to make of the sole survivor of the Conclave explosion.

She had introduced herself with calm formality, offering her hand to him in an almost courtly gesture. "Cecily Trevelyan, late of the Ostwick Circle. A pleasure to meet you, Commander."

Cullen had done his best to respond appropriately, but he had little experience with highborn women—and he hadn't needed Josephine's memorandum on the Trevelyans of Ostwick to guess that the Herald had noble blood. Not that she was haughty, exactly. Just … formal. Reserved.

He had thought her presence at the war council an anomaly, until Cassandra brought her to the next meeting, and then to the one after that. When he asked about it, Cassandra gave him one of her heavy sighs and said, "Surely you've noticed that everyone in Haven is whispering about the Herald of Andraste. For better or for worse, she is now part of the Inquisition."

 _A quiet part_ , Cullen thought, glancing over at her as Josephine and Leliana argued over the best strategy for dealing with unpleasant rumors in Val Royeaux. The Herald watched them as they debated their next steps, her face serious and attentive, but by now he knew that she would not offer an opinion unless asked. It occurred to him that perhaps she was not quite sure what her role was either.

Eventually, Josephine agreed to defer to Leliana, and the discussion turned to potential alliances in the Free Marches. Josephine turned to the Herald with a smile.

"Lady Trevelyan, I have been meaning to ask. What would you think of us making contact with your family? Might they be willing to aid the Inquisition?"

The Herald blinked. "I … I'm not sure," she replied. The thought seemed to put her a bit off-balance.

"I suppose you have not seen them for quite some time, since you went to the Circle," Leliana said sympathetically.

"Actually, they used to visit," Cecily admitted.

That drew Cullen's attention. The Order wasn't supposed to let mages remain in much contact with their families. "Indeed?" he said, unable to help himself. "That is unusual."

The Herald turned her head to meet his gaze. "Yes, it is," she said, her polite mask back in place. "But my family had influence with the Ostwick Templars. The Trevelyans are generous supporters of the Ostwick Chantry, and the old Knight-Commander was a personal friend of my father's. The visits were not frequent, but they were permitted so long as my conduct was satisfactory."

"Ah," was all Cullen could think to say. He could not blame the Trevelyans for wishing to see their daughter, but even now, after leaving the Order, such blatant favoritism from a Knight-Commander offended him.

"I am aware of the unfairness, Commander," she said coolly, apparently sensing his reaction. "My best friend Kallian's family tried to see her once and they threatened to throw her parents in a cell. I was glad to see my parents, but I do not excuse the fact that their position gave them—gave _us_ privileges denied to other families."

"Of course not," he said, a bit taken aback by the edge in her voice.

The Herald shifted uncomfortably, then turned her attention back to Josephine. "In any case, our family friend died a few years ago and the next Knight-Commander stopped the visits. I haven't seen them since."

Josephine made a sympathetic noise. "But they are religious, yes? Will the idea of their daughter being touched by Andraste please them?"

"I'm not sure how they will take the news of my involvement with the Inquisition," the mage said, her face thoughtful. "If I were anyone else, they would probably think all of this 'Herald of Andraste' business was just a bunch of heretical nonsense—not to put too fine a point on it," she added wryly. "Let me write to them. I've been meaning to let them know I'm all right. I'll tell them the truth and let them draw their own conclusions about the Inquisition. They're more likely to help if they think it's their idea."

"Splendid!" Josephine beamed. "Follow me. I shall furnish you with paper and ink immediately."

* * *

Cullen and Leliana stayed in the war room for nearly two hours more, arguing over looming threats and discussing the best way to supply his soldiers. Josephine eventually rejoined them and, after just a few more arguments about the Inquisition's priorities, the three of them agreed to break for the evening.

The sun had set and Cullen was feeling restless, so he decided to walk around Haven's chantry, taking a moment to appreciate the quiet. As he passed the door to Josephine's office, however, a wadded-up scrap of paper bounced across his path.

Cullen picked it up. Curiosity got the better of him. He looked through the doorway to see who had thrown it.

The Herald was sitting at Josephine's desk, her mouth tight with frustration. She had unpinned her hair and was using her left hand to hold it back from her face; her right hand clutched a pen so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. Several more scraps of crumpled and torn paper littered the ground around her.

Cullen tried to back away quietly, but she looked up before he could make his escape. "Commander?"

Her eyes fell to the crumpled paper in his hand. She looked a bit embarrassed. "Oh. My apologies. I cannot seem to write anything satisfactory to my parents. And I promised Josephine she'd have the letter by the morning." She sighed and flexed her hand—not the right one holding the pen, but the left one bearing the green mark.

Cullen felt a stab of sympathy. "Letters home can be surprisingly difficult to write. Can I help? I don't know your family, but perhaps a second pair of eyes might be useful?"

She blinked. "That's very kind of you," she said, a bit of surprise coloring her voice. "I … actually, the paper you're holding is the furthest I've gotten."

Cullen pulled a nearby chair to the desk opposite her, sat, and smoothed the paper as best he could.

 _Dear Mother and Father,_

 _I scarcely know how to start this letter. First, please know that I am safe, and that I wish I could have written to you sooner. I did not know who might want Ostwick's mages found, and I did not want to endanger you or my siblings._

 _I was present at the Conclave, and by some act of luck or providence, I was the lone survivor of the explosion that destroyed the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I now bear a mark on my hand that appears linked to the breach in the sky.I do not remember the events that led to the explosion at the Conclave, or how I received this mark, but it has successfully closed small rifts in Ferelden and may be capable of sealing the largest breach as well._

 _Before her death, Divine Justinia tasked her Left and Right Hands with resurrecting the Inquisition of old, with the goal of restoring order amidst the mage-Templar war. The disaster at the Conclave has given the Inquisition a new task: closing the Breach. Sister Leliana and Seeker Cassandra, both good women, have recruited me to help to close the rift._

 _You may have heard that some are calling me the Herald of Andraste -which is absolute nonsense and I wish it would stop-. Please know that I do not claim such a title for myself. But it is clear that there cannot be peace so long as demons pour from the Fade into our world, and I believe that the Inquisition can bring an end to this crisis. I must do what I can to aid it._

 _You may write to me in Haven, where the Inquisition has established its first camp. Please send whatever news you have. Was Edmund and Lyssa's wedding everything they dreamed? What of Evie—does she apply herself to her lessons in politics and business, or does she still prefer to ride her horse at breakneck speeds down the streets of Ostwick?_

 _Most of all, please let me know that you are safe._  
 _Love, Cecy_

"Cecy?" he murmured as he finished the letter.

"My nickname. My baby sister Evelyn—Evie—couldn't say Cecily when she was small. 'Cecy' stuck." The Herald smiled fondly, then her face fell. "Maker, she's twenty-two now. She'll be appalled if I put in that bit about the horses and the lessons."

"I can't speak to that, but the rest of the letter seems good," Cullen said. "What's wrong with it?"

Cecily sighed and ran her hands through her hair. "Honestly? It doesn't feel truthful. It makes this all sound sane and it's not." She flexed her hand again, seemingly unconsciously. "I haven't seen them in five years, and since then I've been thrown out of my home, almost been killed about forty times, and gotten a bizarre magic mark on my hand plus the world's most cumbersome nickname. But I don't want them to worry. And I know Josephine is hoping they'll help us. We need allies."

"Let your family know you're safe. The rest will sort itself out." Cullen looked at the letter again. "Is this really what you think of the Inquisition?"

Cecily peered over the desk, re-read her words, then nodded. "Why do you ask?"

"It's exactly how I feel," Cullen said earnestly. "It's why I joined. I've seen the devastation this mage-Templar war causes firsthand. When Cassandra offered me this position I left the Templars to join her cause. The Chantry lost control of both the Templars and the mages, and now they argue over a new Divine while the Breach remains. The Inquisition can act when the Chantry cannot. Our followers can be part of that. We can be part of that. There's so much we can …"

He trailed off when he realized how much he was talking. "Forgive me. You didn't ask for a lecture."

She smiled. "No, but if you have one prepared I'd be willing to hear it."

He chuckled. "You are generous." He handed the letter back to her. "I think you should recopy this and send it."

She took it. "Thank you, Commander. You were right—I did need outside perspective. I suppose nothing I write will quite capture what's going on. I have new respect for Varric."

Cullen smiled at that. He could only imagine the version of the letter Varric would write. "Good evening, Herald," he said, standing.

"Commander? Would you call me Cecily?"

Cullen looked down at the letter, saw the crossed-out bit about wishing the Herald of Andraste talk would stop. "Of course. Cecily. If you like, you should call me Cullen. Things in Haven can seem quite formal when we all use titles."

"They can, can't they?" she asked, smiling a bit. "Good evening, then, Cullen."


	4. Chapter 4

_"Will you come visit me? Not now, of course," Merrill said anxiously. "But maybe later. I could use a friend."_

 _Hawke didn't hesitate. "Of course I'll visit."_

* * *

For the first few weeks, every time Cecy spent a night at Haven she would make time to look at the blast site, to offer a few words to Lydia and Kalli and the others who had died there. Sometimes she missed them so badly she couldn't breathe. She would have dearly loved Lydia's advice on all of this. And Kalli would have had the entire Inquisition wrapped around her fingers in a day or less—not like Cecy, who fumbled her way through most conversations and usually survived them by retreating into the highborn manners she'd been taught as a child.

But slowly, things in Haven started to seem more familiar. Friendlier.

It started with Varric bringing her a copy of the _Tale_ —a beautiful one, elegantly bound and nothing like the cheap copy she'd lost. Vivienne had clucked her tongue in disapproval when she saw it—a Ferelden apostate was no one she admired—but in her own way she was kind to Cecily, asking about her time at Ostwick and sharing her own memories of Lydia. Solas's knowledge of the Fade fascinated Cecily, and soon their conversations ranged beyond the mark on her hand to spirits and demons and any number of topics. She also felt less useless when the war council met; her work in the Hinterlands and the Storm Coast had helped her see what the Inquisition could do, and where they might do more.

After the meetings, Cullen would ask about her family and he'd smile if she'd had a letter from them. He told her about his childhood in Honnleath, how much he'd missed his own family when he went to the Templars at thirteen. It felt a bit odd to be friends with a Templar, but Cecily felt increasingly sure that they were, indeed, friends. Cullen could be obsessive about the Inquisition, but underneath that dedication he was a genuine and kind-hearted man.

She tried very hard to ignore the other things she was noticing about him. Like the way his hands looked when he moved pieces around on the war map, or way his scar drew attention to his mouth. She tried especially hard not to imagine what those hands and mouth might be like if she kissed him. A little crush was one thing, but a full-blown infatuation would have been a disaster.

And then there was Sera and The Iron Bull.

Cecily was well aware that her family was everything Sera hated about the world. She wasn't hostile to Cecily, though. More wary. And The Iron Bull … well, Cecily had no idea how to talk to him and she found the idea mildly terrifying. He was reporting on the Inquisition to the Ben-Hassrath, after all. Plus the whole thing where the Qun took mages and sewed their mouths shut.

Eventually the ice broke with them as well, and in a way Cecily couldn't have predicted if she'd tried.

* * *

She'd taken Sera on a quick trip to Redcliffe. The elf had been pestering her, demanding to see the rifts. At first Cecily thought Sera was unimpressed—she'd seen the monsters, pulled out her bow, and let loose with arrows and curse words—but afterwards, Sera hadn't been able to stop talking about the demons. Cecily only understood about every fifth word Sera said; she did her best to keep up.

When they got back to Haven Sera had asked if she'd come for a drink. Somewhat against her better judgment, Cecily agreed. Her better judgment had been wrong. Soon she was sipping ale and laughing while Sera pantomimed their battle against the demons.

"Shit, I can't believe that's what you lot do every day," the elf finished, sitting down on the bench with a thump. "You might just be worth something after all."

"Thank you. I think," Cecily said, pleased in spite of herself.

"Don't let it go to your head." Suddenly, Sera stuck her hand up and waved it in the air. "Oi! Bull!"

Cecily turned, just in time to see The Iron Bull's expression shift when he realized she was there too. She would have resented his obvious discomfort if she didn't share it.

 _Don't be such a coward, Trevelyan. Just have a conversation with the nice horned giant. He hasn't tried to sew your mouth shut, right?_

"Bull," she said, giving him a nod.

"Herald," he replied stiffly. "Didn't think you were much for drinking."

"Pfft," Sera spat. "Everyone's much for drinking after a day like today. Those demons, ya? All teeth and growling and snapping." She clapped her jaws together in imitation of the terrors.

"I know what you mean." Bull sat down and signaled the barkeep, who pulled out a double-sized tankard and began filling it. _Apparently he's known in here._

Cecily desperately grappled for something to say. "Can I ask you some questions about the Qunari?" she blurted.

Bull arched his eyebrow. "Why? Are you writing a book?"

Cecily tried not to wonder if Bull meant that as an insult. "Yes. I'm writing a book about the Qunari. Andraste told me to, you see," she said seriously.

The baffled look on Bull's face was worth the awkward moment. Sera started laughing. "You're takin' a piss, right?"

Cecily held her somber expression as long as she could before her smile cracked through. "Yes, I'm teasing. There's no book. I'm just curious. But is it rude to ask?"

Bull shifted in his seat and narrowed his eye, as if seeing her for the first time. "Nope. Ask away."

Cecily tried to think back to what she'd read about the Qunari after the near-invasion in Kirkwall. Asking about their mages seemed too fraught, so she settled on, "I've heard the Qunari don't marry. Is that accurate?"

This clearly wasn't the question Bull had expected. He answered anyway. "Yeah, that's true. Qunari love our friends like anyone, but we don't have sex with them."

Sera's nose crinkled. "Wot? You don't have sex?"

The Bull chuckled. "Oh, no. We _definitely_ have sex. There are Tamassrans who pop your cork whenever you need it. It's just not a big deal like it is to you people. It's like seeing a healer. Sometimes it takes all day, leaves you walking funny. Other times you're in and out in five minutes." He clicked his tongue twice. "'Thank you, see you next week!'"

Cecily sat up straighter and blinked. Bull's head swung toward her. "I … uh. Not to, um. Offend. My lady."

Cecily clicked her tongue as he had—almost a question. _Click click?_ Then she burst out laughing.

"I think you broke her," Sera said, watching as Cecily gasped for breath and wiped tears from her eyes.

"I'm sorry! I've just never heard anyone put it quite like that." Cecily made the clicking sound again, then succumbed to the giggles once more. "Oh dear. Sorry." She took a breath, closed her eyes, and finally calmed down. "All right, better. And if you want to offend me you'll have to say something _much_ worse than that."

Bull chuckled, sounding almost approving. "I suppose if you were easily scandalized, you wouldn't be having drinks with this one." He jerked a thumb at Sera.

"Hey! I'm right here, you daft blighter." Sera scowled at him.

"Ah, you know I like you, Sera. All right, my turn, Herald. How do mages in the Circle handle sex?"

A mischievous smile danced around the edges of Bull's mouth. _This is a test,_ she realized. _He wants to see if I'm embarrassed._

Well, she was. But damned if she were going to show it.

"We go about it the same as anyone else does, I expect," she said cheerfully. "You meet someone you like and you find someplace private. It's just more challenging to do the second part. Especially since fraternization is forbidden, officially. The Templars can punish you for it if they catch you."

"Did _you_ ever get caught?" Bull asked, that mischievous grin still in place.

Cecily felt her face heat a bit. "I think I'm going to keep that to myself," she said. In truth, there hadn't been much of anything to catch-but Bull and Sera didn't need to know that.

"You're cute when you blush, boss."

"Cute? Please, tell me that's not how you're describing me in your reports to the Ben-Hassrath," Cecily groaned.

"Why, how do you want to be described?"

"I was hoping you'd say I was twelve feet tall and breathed fire," Cecily cracked.

"I think you're thinking of dragons," Sera said. "Don't get me wrong, you're right scary when you're throwing all that magic stuff around, but no one's getting you confused with a dragon."

"Oh dear. That was my escape plan. Blend in with the dragons if things go bad," Cecily sighed.

Bull's chest rumbled in a laugh. "Don't worry, boss. I'll leave out the fact that you're cute."

"You have my thanks," Cecily said dryly.


	5. Chapter 5

_We took Keran back to the Gallows and made a full report to the Knight-Captain about what we'd found. That probably should have been the end of it, but then someone made a comment about the depravity of mages in general._

 _Most apostates would have noticed that they were surrounded by Templars and kept their mouths shut. Not Hawke. "Perhaps your mages would be less hostile if they hadn't been locked in a prison simply for existing."_

 _"How can you say that, after what you've seen? Mages cannot be treated like people," the Knight-Captain said angrily. "They are not like you and I."_

 _Hawke crossed her arms. "Mages aren't people?" She gave him a bland smile. "How astonishing. To the untrained eye they look so similar. But I suppose you'd know better than I."_

 _I don't think the Knight-Captain realized how close he'd just come to being incinerated._

* * *

"I've had another letter from home," Cecily said, approaching Cullen at the war table after an unusually short meeting of the council.

Cullen had been reviewing the latest numbers on the coin and supplies for his troops, but he set down his ledger when Cecily stepped to his side. "Do your parents seem more at ease with the Inquisition?" he asked. The Trevelyans' first message from Ostwick had contained several veiled questions about whether Cecily was being held against her will. Fortunately, more letters and a promise that she'd visit when she could seemed to have soothed their nerves.

"They do. They might be too much at ease, in fact," Cecily answered. "My parents are trying to find suitors for my sister Evie. They have their eye on a Ferelden Arl's son. I think they're hoping Josephine might drop a few favorable words in the Arl's ear."

"I'm certain she could." Cullen frowned. "Although I'm not sure the Inquisition ought to be in the matchmaking business."

Cecily laughed. "I have to agree. Besides, Evie also sent me a letter, and she calls the young man in question an 'utter tit.' She enclosed a sketch of him. I think my parents may regret the drawing lessons they forced upon her." She pulled the letter out of her pocket; a lock of hair fell across her cheek as she bent her head to unfold it, and she stepped closer to show him the picture.

Cullen tried not to think about how appealing she smelled, or what her skin might feel like if he tucked that bit of hair back behind her ear. He had noticed those sorts of thoughts crossing his mind a few weeks ago; at first he thought they would pass, but they'd only become harder to ignore.

Fortunately, Evie's sketch was an effective distraction. He snorted with laughter. "Maker. Is he picking his nose?"

"I believe he is." Cecily folded the paper back into her pocket. "Any word from your family?"

"I haven't written to them in several weeks," he admitted. _Several months, more like._ "They are used to long silences from me, though. After I transferred from the Ferelden Circle, I'm afraid my letters became shamefully irregular."

"I don't think I've ever asked you where you served," Cecily said. "Most of the Ostwick Templars were from the Free Marches, but we had a few Fereldens, even some Orlesians. Where did they send you?"

"I served in the Ferelden Circle during the Blight." Cullen prayed she wouldn't ask about that. "Then I was promoted to Knight-Captain and transferred to Kirkwall. I spent several years there, until Cassandra recruited me a few months ago."

Silence fell in the room.

Cecily's demeanor visibly changed. Her brow knitted, her shoulders stiffened, and she looked at him as if she'd never seen him before. " _You_ were a Kirkwall Templar? The Knight-Captain of their Circle?"

Cullen's stomach sank at her expression. Of course she would feel that way about Kirkwall Templars. He felt as if he should apologize, but wasn't sure where to start. "I was. I am not proud of what happened there. Red lyrium drove Knight-Commander Meredith mad, and I should have seen it sooner. There was a lot I should have seen sooner."

She didn't look very reassured by that. "Did you know Varric? Or the Champion?"

"I only knew Varric as the Champion's friend. As for the Champion—yes. We met several times. I fear I did not make the best impression." _An understatement, I'm sure._

Cecily appeared to be thinking about whether to ask something. Finally, she spoke, her voice thin and unsteady. "The Knight-Captain in Varric's book, the one who said mages weren't people, that there were arguments for expanding the Rite of Tranquility. Was that you?"

Cullen's veins turned to ice. For a moment he wanted to lie, to say Varric had made it up for dramatic impact, but … "Yes. It was."

She opened and closed her mouth for a moment, looking at him with a mixture of astonishment, horror, and hurt. Finally, she said, "Why?" Her voice heated a bit. "Maker's breath, Cullen. How could you _think_ that?"

Shame coursed through Cullen. He wanted to be angry at Varric for putting that in the _Tale_ , but he knew the blame was his. He'd come to Kirkwall so angry, so paranoid about blood magic, that he'd been willing to accept almost any measure to curtail the mages' freedom. He'd worked side-by-side with Meredith—even with Alrik.

But after the Qunari rebellion, and with more distance from what happened in Ferelden, his views had slowly begun to shift. Perhaps it had been watching the Circle mages risk their lives to fight the Qunari, to get Hawke into the Keep. Perhaps it was seeing Hawke go toe to toe against the Arishok in defense of her city and nearly lose her life for it. Perhaps it was Meredith's increasing madness. But finally, he'd remembered what the Order was supposed to do—and seen how far they'd come from that ideal.

 _Much too little. Far too late._

He forced himself not to look away from her; he deserved the reproach in her expression. "Because I was angry, and ignorant, and arrogant, and a thousand other things I regret."

He paused, trying to find the right words. There were none. "I am ashamed of what I said. Nothing I say now would excuse it."

Cecily looked at him for a long moment, then nodded a bit. "Thank you for being honest. I'll let you get back to work."

As she walked away, Cullen called out, "I'm sorry."

Her head turned back. "For what?" she asked, not stepping closer.

 _For so much._ "For what I said, and thought," he began. "For not stopping Meredith. For not doing more in Kirkwall to protect the people there—especially the mages. I failed. But I will not fail the Inquisition, I swear it."

Cecily's face was serious, but not unfriendly. "I believe you, Commander," she said quietly.

Cullen watched her go. When she was out of sight, he closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, trying to control the nausea that engulfed him.

This wasn't the first time he'd been ashamed of the man he'd been in Kirkwall. But he felt as if that man had just reached out from the past to hurt someone he respected. Someone he liked.

That horrified look in Cecily's eyes … he'd be seeing that for a long time.


	6. Chapter 6

_I won't say much about the Deep Roads, except this: only the stupid or suicidal should visit them. If neither term applies to you, I recommend finding another way to make your fortune._

 _Hawke came out of that thaig a wealthy woman. She was able to restore her mother to her childhood home, the grand Amell estate in Hightown. But neither she nor Leandra thought it worth the price Carver had paid._

* * *

"Let's see. We're waist-deep in stagnant water, this appears to be a dungeon, and we don't know where or _when_ we are. How does this rank with _your_ worst days?" Dorian asked. "Because it's up there, for me."

Cecily sloshed forward through the water and shuddered as it soaked into her tunic, carrying an awful clammy feeling up her body. "I'd have to think about that. This could be the worst, but the day the Conclave exploded was also quite bad. Ask me again later. If we're still alive."

"Of course we'll still be alive," Dorian said dismissively, sloshing along beside her. "I'm much too handsome and talented to die."

His arrogance seemed almost sincere, but something told Cecily that he was as close to panicking as she was. Oddly, that made her feel better. "In that case, I'm glad I'm with you. It increases my odds of survival," she said flippantly.

"Indeed, you're most fortunate." Dorian made a disgusted noise. "Ugh, I don't want to know what I just stepped on. Let's get to dry ground and then figure out how to get out of here."

* * *

Haven, apparently, was going to be full of mages.

Unhappy, unstable, recently-allied-with-Tevinter mages, brought in as full allies of the Inquisition and housed right next to a massive tear in the Veil.

Cullen was already on edge, and Cassandra's report at the war table pushed him right over it. "What was she thinking, setting so many mages loose with no supervision? You were there. Why didn't you stop her?" he shouted.

Cassandra gave him a flat look. The _do not raise your voice at me_ was implied. "We asked the Herald to secure the cooperation of the rebel mages. This, she has done. I may not entirely agree with her decision, but I will support it."

"And we cannot go back on the alliance now. We risk looking indecisive at best, treacherous and tyrannical at worst." Josephine shook her head at the predicament.

"We need their help."

Cullen started a bit. Cecily had entered the room, the Tevinter mage—Dorian—one step behind her. Cassandra had returned from Redcliffe looking none the worse for wear, but the same could not be said for the Herald. There was a burn on her cheek, her eyes were bloodshot, and her face was ash-pale. If Cullen had to guess, he'd say she hadn't slept—maybe not for several days.

"If I had conscripted the mages, if the Inquisition had been no better than Tevinter, they'd start sneaking out of Haven as soon as they arrived," she continued, rubbing a hand across her eyes as she stepped up to the table. "I need their cooperation, not their suspicions."

"The Templars were still a viable option," Cullen insisted. "I fail to see why we could not wait to …"

" _We don't have time_."

Cullen had never heard Cecily raise her voice before. It had the desired effect; the room went quiet. "You'll understand when I explain what happened at Redcliffe," she said passionately. "But …"

The door opened to reveal Leliana. "I heard shouting. Is everything—oh!"

Leliana's question was cut off when Cecily—reserved, quiet, formal Cecily—crossed the room in three fast strides and threw her arms around the spymaster. After a beat, Leliana returned the hug, looking over Cecily's shoulder with a puzzled expression.

Cecily stepped back. An almost silly grin lit her face. "I'm sorry. But—oh, Maker, you have no idea how good it is to see you, Leliana. This will make sense, I swear."

Leliana looked around the room, as if someone else might be able to explain what was going on. Dorian stepped forward and bowed. "Sister Leliana. You look much better than you did at Redcliffe."

The spymaster blinked. "At Redcliffe?"

"Oh, you won't remember. And thank the Maker for that," Dorian said. "You may want to sit down for this next part."

Cecily pressed her lips together. "No. Wait. Everyone needs to hear this. Leliana, Josephine, Cullen—can you gather the rest?"

* * *

An hour later, Cecily had told her story to the Inquisition's core group, with occasional additions from Dorian. She left out nothing—Connor's death, Leliana's torture, the effects of red lyrium on Alexius's prisoners, the massive rift in the sky.

"The Iron Bull and Cassandra were apparently captured after Alexius sent us forward. They'd spent the last year in that dungeon. We got them out of their cells and they—you—came with us to face Alexius. So did you, Leliana. We killed Alexius and took the amulet, but then demons started attacking Redcliffe."

She swallowed, wishing she didn't have to say this, knowing she did. They had to understand what she'd seen. "The three of you sacrificed yourselves, bought Dorian the time he needed to return us to our own time. Bull, Cassandra—I heard you both scream right before the demons burst into the throne room. They surrounded Leliana and tore out her throat right as we stepped into the rift."

She looked around the room, around this odd assembled group who had found the Inquisition. "I asked you here because you need to know what we're up against. We all knew the Inquisition was important in the abstract. But _it is no longer abstract._ If we don't move quickly enough, within a year it may be beyond our power to stop this Elder One. The Breach will grow. Every elf, qunari, human, and dwarf in Thedas will suffer. And then the world will end."

Everyone was looking at her. She crossed her arms, hoping the gesture would hide the shake in her hands. "Those are our stakes. Those are the consequences if we fail. So I strongly suggest that we … well, not fail."

She wished she'd thought of a better ending to the speech.

Dorian was the first to break the silence. "I think that sounds like a splendid plan. A bit light on the specifics, but we'll work on those. I'm in."

Cecily looked over at him. "You're staying? Truly?"

"Don't sound so surprised, Herald. We both saw what could happen. Besides, that was a very inspiring speech. Horrifying, but inspiring. I like the idea of not dying in unimaginable agony. So, I'll stay and help. If you'll have me."

Cecily reached out her hand and clasped Dorian's. The tension in her chest eased just a bit. "Gladly. I'm hoping I never get lost in time again, but if it does happen, I'd rather you were there."

"I'm in too, boss," The Iron Bull rumbled. "All in. Stopping this asshole comes first."

"And I will begin working with our new allies immediately. We _will_ find a way to close the Breach," Solas said.

"You can count on us, of course," Leliana said. She stood and placed her hand on Cecily's shoulder, a brief, compassionate gesture. "Josie and I will look into the things you saw in the future. The assassination. The army of demons. The information you gathered may prove vital to stopping these Venatori."

Cullen, too, rose from his chair. "I am sorry I criticized your decision," he said. "Our priority must be doing everything we can to thwart this Elder One, and quickly. The Inquisition's armies will be ready. You have my word on that."

Cecily nodded. "Thank you, Commander—Cullen. I have faith in you. In all of you."

"Marvelous. Glad to see everyone being so productive. _I_ will begin by getting our Herald completely and utterly drunk." Dorian threw a friendly arm around her shoulders.

Cecily smiled up at him, grateful for the thought. Getting drunk sounded awfully appealing, but … "I did just tell everyone that the world will end if we fail. I'm not sure a night off is in order."

"Sleep is in order," Dorian told her. "You haven't closed your eyes since we left Redcliffe, I'm certain."

"Whiskey will help with that," said Varric. "Come on, Herald. Humor us and have a few drinks. I'll tell you some Hawke stories you haven't heard."

"And after that, maybe take a nice hot bath," Dorian suggested. "Please tell me you take baths in the South."

"We do indeed. Occasionally, we even use soap," Cecily assured him.


	7. Chapter 7

_The Hanged Man had Kirkwall's worst ale and second-worst clientele, but it had the best gossip, and it was one of the only places in the city that never got around to banning Isabela. So it became the host for regular games of Wicked Grace among Hawke's friends. Merrill eventually learned not to announce when she was bluffing._

* * *

The sight of Dorian's arm around Cecily's shoulders stirred something unpleasant in Cullen. He couldn't help but notice the way she leaned into the embrace, taking comfort in the contact.

Soon, it seemed to Cullen as if he never saw Cecily without Dorian present. He was there while she and Solas performed various tests on the mark, lending his own magic when required, discussing possible remedies for the Breach in technical terminology that made Cullen's head hurt. They took most of their meals together and they seemed to laugh a great deal, especially when Varric joined them. Cullen half expected Dorian to follow Cecily into the war council, and only just managed to bite back a sarcastic remark about her missing shadow when she entered alone.

 _Maker's breath. I have no right to be jealous_. She'd shown no sign of interest in him—indeed, she'd been distant ever since he'd told her about Kirkwall, and he couldn't blame her.

One afternoon, as Cullen headed back to the war room after training with his soldiers, he heard a laugh float out of Cecily's small Chantry office. "I will win eventually, Dorian."

Unable to help himself, Cullen walked past her door. It was open, revealing the Herald and her Tevinter mage sitting at her desk with a chessboard between them. "Promises, promises, my dear Cecily," Dorian said, moving one of his pieces. "Your situation is more dire than you realize."

Cecily looked at the board, then moved her tower to take Dorian's archmage. "I think you're the one in trouble this time."

"Ah, I'm afraid not." Dorian moved his knight.

Cecily groaned. "Blast it! I didn't see that." She looked at the board, her eyes narrow. "Damn. No matter what I do you'll win in three moves."

"Yes. But if you _had_ noticed my knight, you might have played me to a draw. You're getting much better," Dorian said. "Of course, you've had an excellent teacher."

"Of course," she replied wryly.

It was Dorian who noticed Cullen first. "Commander! I don't suppose you play chess? Our Herald here was hopeless when we began playing, but she's approaching competence now."

"Such flattery," Cecily murmured, setting the board back to its starting configuration.

"I do play a bit," Cullen said, suddenly seeing an opportunity to ease the lingering tension between them. "I don't suppose I might claim the next game?"

Cecily stood. "Of course, Commander. I actually need to consult with Cassandra about something. But please, you two should continue."

 _Apparently I should have been more specific_ , Cullen thought, hiding his frustration as best he could. He could not see a graceful way to decline playing against Dorian, so he sat, trying not to watch Cecily as she left the room.

Dorian looked at him with an expression Cullen couldn't quite read. "Well. Won't this be delightful? I've been thinking we should get to know each other better, Commander."

"Indeed," Cullen said politely. "Would you like the first move?"

"Oh no. Please, after you. You're going to need every advantage you can get."

* * *

An hour later, Dorian swore. "Damn. You're actually quite good at this."

Cullen laughed. "I'll take the compliment." Dorian was an excellent player and clearly hadn't expected Cullen to pose a challenge. "My sister and I used to play. She could likely beat both of us, simultaneously."

"I've gotten used to playing against Cecily, that's the problem." Dorian sighed and moved his knight; a sacrifice play, but necessary to keep him in the game. "She learns quickly but she's still terribly predictable. We're working on it."

Cullen's good mood subsided. He put one finger on his archmage, then removed his hand from the board and looked at Dorian. "What exactly are your intentions towards the Herald?"

Dorian raised an eyebrow. "My _intentions_? Commander, are you asking if I'm _courting_ your Herald of Andraste?"

"Are you?" Cullen challenged.

"Certainly not. She's a lovely woman, but she's not really my type."

"Oh, indeed? And what exactly _is_ your type, then?"

The mage leaned back in his seat and gave him an amused smile. Not just amused, Cullen realized—appreciative. "Well, Commander. Since you asked, you're rather close to it. I don't suppose you're available?"

Cullen's mouth dropped open. "Um," he said eloquently. "I. Um. I'm quite flattered, actually. But I … well, men aren't …"

Dorian laughed and held up his hand, forestalling any more stammering. "It's all right, Commander—I suspected that you prefer women. I'll try not to hold it against you. Whatever made you think Cecily and I were courting?"

Embarrassment colored Cullen's cheeks. "You've been spending a great deal of time together," he said lamely. "She is different around you. Happier."

Dorian considered this for a moment. "Well, we're friends." It sounded like the idea surprised him. "Apparently getting trapped in a red-lyrium-addled dystopia together is an excellent bonding experience. Not that I'm recommending it, mind you. Now it's my turn for an uncomfortable question. Are you asking out of brotherly concern? As a representative of the Inquisition? Or because you want to court her yourself?"

Cullen wished he were a better liar. "She is important to our success," he said vaguely. "I have been wishing that things between us were easier. Friendlier. As they seem to be between you."

"And why aren't they, do you think?" Dorian twirled one of Cullen's captured pieces between his fingers, his eyes intent on the Commander.

Cullen sighed. He didn't entirely want to be telling Dorian this, but who else could he seek counsel from? "Have you read Varric's _Tale of the Champion_?"

Dorian shook his head. "The Kirkwall events didn't really have the same significance in Tevinter."

Cullen felt absurdly grateful for that. "I crossed paths with the Champion a few times. The Tale records some things I'm not proud of, things I said about mages. Cecily made the connection. I'm ashamed of what I said now," he added hastily. "And there was much more I could have done in Kirkwall. I cannot blame her for thinking less of me."

"Did you tell her that?"

Cullen nodded. "But I haven't known what to say to her since."

"You could try 'good morning,'" Dorian suggested. "Or 'how are you today?' Or any number of things besides 'I have the latest recruitment reports.' That's all I've heard you say to her since I've been here, and frankly it's not very romantic."

"Sometimes I have reports on missions we discussed at the war council." Cullen heard the words and had to laugh at himself. "I take your point. I don't know if I ought to be _romantic_ , given our respective situations …"

Dorian heaved a tired sigh. "Yes, yes, duty, honor, distraction, et cetera."

"But I would be content to know she didn't hate me."

Dorian blinked at him. "I'm reasonably sure she doesn't, Commander," he said dryly. "I'll tell you what. If you win this game, I'll write down ten things you can say to her that aren't about reports."

Cullen looked at the board. "You do know I'm two moves away from checkmate," he said, trying to recapture his competitive bravado.

Dorian chuckled. "Are you indeed? I must be in a helpful mood, then."

It took four moves, and the game ended in a stalemate. But the next morning, Cullen found a neatly folded note waiting for him at his desk.

 _Since it was a draw, I'll give you five._

 _1\. Good morning, Cecily._  
 _2\. Good afternoon, Cecily._  
 _3\. I'm afraid I'm out of reports today. Would you care to discuss the weather?_  
 _4\. Isn't Dorian handsome and charming?_  
 _5\. Would you like to play a game of chess?_


	8. Chapter 8

_With the Viscount dead, Knight-Commander Meredith should have been the most important person in Kirkwall. The moment the nobles at the Keep raised a cheer to the Champion, however, Hawke became Meredith's rival._

 _At first, Meredith chose to politely ignore the fact that the Champion had used magic—dangerous, powerful, Qunari-slaying magic—in full view of half the city. The Knight-Commander was no fool; she saw that trying to force Hawke into a Circle would cause a political and popular uproar._

 _But I think some part of Meredith spent the next three years waiting for the day when she could confront the Champion._

* * *

The first days after Redcliffe felt like slow torture to Cecily.

Solas told her, time and again, that it was impossible to predict when they would be able to close the large rift. Cecily wasn't prepared to accept that. She spent every waking moment pouring over every magical book she could find, asking Solas questions, consulting with the other mages, trying to figure out the right combination of magic that would give the mark enough power to seal the Breach.

Finally, Solas threw up his hands and told her that she was banned from the research quarters unless he summoned her. "I will get nothing done if you keep asking me how much longer this will take."

"But I can help," insisted Cecily.

"In your current state of mind, I'm afraid you are more likely to be a hindrance," said Solas, not unkindly.

"Solas, if we don't close the Breach, it will grow so large that the entire sky will be green," she argued desperately.

"If we do nothing, yes, that will happen. But I assure you, we are _not_ doing nothing. And remember, the future you saw was a future in which you had been missing for a year and there had been no one to close any rifts, large or small. Your very return made that future impossible. Think on that, and let me work."

That hadn't occurred to Cecily, and she did find it somewhat comforting. Even so, it proved hard to keep her mind away from what she'd seen at Redcliffe.

In the Circle, when she had felt afraid or trapped or frustrated, she'd found things to climb. Cecily was actually terrified of heights, but that was rather the point: she'd be afraid of looking down, feel smug for doing it anyway, and return to whatever she'd been doing with more confidence and a clearer head. But there weren't many high places in Haven, and she wasn't sure she wanted to explain to Josephine or Vivienne why someone had spotted the Herald of Andraste on the roof of the Chantry.

Fortunately, Dorian found her a new hobby: chess. Cecily knew the names of the pieces and the general rules of the game, but little else, and Dorian beat her with embarrassing ease the first time they played.

"This won't do at all. I insist that you learn how to play this game properly. We cannot let anyone know that the Herald of Andraste is such an appalling strategist," he told her.

The idea didn't appeal much to Cecily, but since she didn't have anything else to do, she agreed. To her surprise, she enjoyed it. Dorian was good company and a patient teacher, and the complexities of the game were absorbing enough to provide some relief to her worried mind.

"You know, Commander Cullen is quite a skilled player," he told her during one of their afternoon games, three weeks or so into her lessons.

"Is he?" Somehow that didn't surprise Cecily. Chess would appeal to someone with Cullen's command of military strategy.

"Now that I know you won't embarrass yourself, or me, perhaps you should ask him to play," Dorian suggested.

There was a little glimmer in his dark eyes that Cecily didn't quite trust. He must have noticed the awkwardness between her and the Commander, Cecily decided.

"That would please the Commander, I think. At least one mage in Haven would have supervision for the duration of the game." She'd meant it as a joke, but the words came out more harshly than she'd intended.

Dorian raised his eyebrows. "Do you really think that's how Commander Cullen sees mages?"

Cecily bit her lip. "I think that's how he used to see us, when he was a Templar. I'm not sure how he sees us now." _I'm not sure how he sees me._

"Well, he did have the good sense to leave the Order. People change," Dorian said mildly.

Cecily was saved from a response by the sound of footsteps—Solas's footsteps.

She was on her feet before she was even conscious of standing. "What is it?"

"Come with me," the elven mage said. "I think we've found it."

* * *

Things happened very quickly after that. Solas determined that ten mages would be sufficient to power the mark, and chose the ones he trusted most with the work. Twenty-four hours later, those ten mages, plus Solas and Cecily, were staring directly into the semi-sealed Breach. Cullen's soldiers surrounded the Rift, ready in case any demons tried to emerge.

Cecily held her breath as they took their places, waiting for it to go wrong—for another time rift to open, for more demons, for … something.

Instead, half an hour later, the Breach was gone.

The reaction in Haven was swift and exultant. Everyone who could play an instrument brought it out and started playing, dances from half a dozen different regions and races were danced simultaneously, and it turned out that a large number of Inquisition personnel had been saving casks of ale and bottles of whiskey for just this sort of day.

Cecily had always been shy at parties, and even this one was no exception. She floated quietly between groups, watching the dancing, sipping at a cup of ale but not wanting to get drunk. Even with the Breach gone there was still so much to do—but she felt lighter watching the celebration.

A figure on Haven's walls caught her eye. Cullen was standing with his arms crossed, pacing slightly, looking out at the mountains around Haven.

No, not the mountains. At the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Cecily set down her drink and went to climb the ladder to join him.

At first Cullen didn't seem to notice her; his attention was absorbed by the sky above the Temple ruins, which still occasionally gave off faint green pulses. "Solas says the sky is scarred, but healing," she said, stepping next to him. "No more demons will ever come out of that breach."

Cullen turned his head to look at her. "Then you should be celebrating."

"So should you," Cecily replied.

Cullen reached out and braced his arms against the top of the wall. "This was an important step, but hardly our last one. We still don't know who this Elder One is, or how he plans to raise an army of demons …"

"… or why he wants to assassinate the Empress of Orlais, or why he created the Breach in the first place," Cecily continued. "I know."

The Commander chuckled. "I see I am not the only one who cannot keep their mind off our work."

"You're a thousand times worse than I am and you know it," Cecily said archly.

"Oh, indeed? I heard that Solas had to bar the door against your presence because you would not stop obsessing over his progress," Cullen retorted, smiling at her.

"Josephine said she found you sleeping at your desk. Five mornings in a row," Cecily shot back.

"And here we both are, arguing about work while everyone else celebrates," Cullen said.

Cecily rested her elbows on Haven's wall and stood in companionable silence with him for a moment. She hadn't realized how much she had missed their conversations. She wondered if she ought to say something about Kirkwall, about her recent coldness, but decided against it. Perhaps they would talk about it eventually, but for now, she didn't want to spoil the first comfortable moment they'd had in weeks.

"Commander, do you like to dance?" she asked impulsively.

Cullen looked at her with some surprise. "I … on occasion, yes. Would you like …?"

"I would."

Cullen smiled almost shyly, then extended his arm to her. "My lady Herald, would you do me the honor?"

Cecily reached out her hand to take it—but then froze.

There was a fire at the top of the mountain.

No. Not a fire. Torches. And they were moving towards Haven.

* * *

For one exhilarating moment, Cecily thought that the Inquisition might actually hold off the Templar army.

Then she saw the dragon.

Cullen ordered the Inquisition's remaining forces to Haven's chantry; they were a battered group, and smaller than Cecily had hoped for. She allowed Dorian to bandage the long scrape on her arm as the strange blond boy in the hat tried to tell them what was going on. Cecily didn't entirely follow Cole's explanation, but one thing became clear: the Elder One and his dragon were there for her.

From the moment Chancellor Roderick told them about the pilgrim's path, Cecily knew what she had to do.

She looked at Cullen. "I'll go out and draw the Elder One's attention. When you're out of reach of the avalanche, send up a signal and I'll trigger the trebuchet."

Cullen nodded—then his face turned pale as he realized the full implications. "And what about you?"

Cecily didn't say anything.

"You cannot be serious!" Cassandra said. "Herald, without you the Inquisition …"

"There will be no Inquisition if we don't get our people out of here. That was the plan, Seeker, not an invitation for opinions," Cecily snapped.

She looked over at Cullen, bracing herself for another argument. His expression was unhappy, to say the least. But he met her eyes and jerked his head in a reluctant nod. "Perhaps you will find a way out," he said, almost gently.

Cecily nodded, trying to look as if she believed him.

It's kind of you to lie to me, Commander. But we both know where this ends.

* * *

Much of Cullen's training as a Templar had been about focus, about how to push distractions or worries from one's mind and think only of the task at hand. So long as Cullen was leading the evacuation, he could concentrate on that—on leading the Inquisition's people up the pilgrim's path, into the mountains, and to the best and most sheltered campsite they were likely to find. He could think about something besides the fact that their escape had come at the price of Cecily's life.

Now, with the camp set up and little to do but wait for morning, he could think of nothing else.

"She was."

Cullen started a bit and looked over. Cole had slipped to his side without him noticing. It was dark, but even so, that was unnerving.

"What?"

The boy looked up at him from underneath his odd hat. "You wonder if she was afraid. She was." His tone was oddly earnest. "But so were the others, and she felt their fears as well. She weighed them against hers, found that hers seemed small. So she swallowed them, and went."

Cullen felt sick. "Why are you telling me this?" he whispered, his voice half-choked, closer to tears than he'd been in a long time.

The boy drew back as if Cullen had yelled at him. "You're sad. I wanted to help. I want to help her too. She's still afraid, and hurt, and cold. She sees the fire but she doesn't trust her eyes."

Cullen forgot to breathe for a moment. "Cole. What are you talking about?"

The boy closed his eyes, opened them, and without a word, began walking. Cullen followed him, barely hearing the puzzled calls from Cassandra and Leliana.

At the edge of the camp, Cole stopped and pointed. "There."

At first Cullen saw only the dark, but then—motion. A single figure moving through the drifts, struggling, stumbling, falling to their knees.

 _It can't be._

Cullen started running, moving over the snow as best he could, forcing himself to be absolutely sure before he dared to hope.

There, kneeling in the snow, ragged and bloodied but _alive_ , was Cecily.


	9. Chapter 9

_"You recognize it, do you not?" Meredith asked. "Pure lyrium, taken from the Deep Roads." She gave the sword an almost loving look._

 _"It does look familiar," said Hawke. "It also drives people mad. Which explains quite a lot, now that I think about it."_

 _Meredith's gaze returned to Hawke. I'd suspected that the Knight-Commander hated the Champion, but even I wasn't expecting to see that much loathing in her eyes. "Enough insolence, Champion. I tolerated your apostasy. But you chose your side and now you will share this Circle's fate." She turned her head to her Templars. "Kill the Champion!"_

 _"Knight-Commander, you said we were going to arrest the Champion!"_

 _A single Templar stepped from the ranks. His face was hidden beneath his helmet, but his uniform identified him as an officer—a high-ranking one at that._

 _The Knight-Commander went pale with rage. "You will do as I command!"_

 _The officer stood his ground. "No. You have gone too far. This is not what the Order stands for. Knight-Commander, stand down. I relieve you of your command."_

 _Meredith pointed her blade directly at the officer. "My own Templars have fallen prey to blood magic. You're all weak, letting the mages control your minds! I will protect this city myself. Starting with the Champion's death!"_

 _The Templar officer drew his sword and stepped between his Commander and the Champion. "You'll have to go through me."_

* * *

The Elder One had a name. Corypheus.

And Varric, apparently, had a friend who had encountered the creature before. "She's going to meet us on the battlements. Bringing her down here might cause a bit of a stir."

Cecily respected Varric's wish for secrecy until they were climbing the half-crumbled stairs, out of earshot of anyone except the birds overhead.

"It's Hawke, isn't it?" She hoped she didn't sound too awestruck.

Varric nodded. "Since you're the Inquisitor now, do you think you can keep Cassandra from killing me?"

Cecily grimaced. _That task might be beyond Andraste herself._

Two figures were waiting for them on the battlements. One was the most striking elf Cecily had ever seen. For a moment she thought he was Dalish, but as she grew closer she could see that the tattoos on his face and arms were not clan markings—they shone pure silver, as did his pale hair.

The woman next to him seemed almost ordinary by comparison, at least at first glance. She was wrapped in a long, dark blue woolen coat worn over leggings and boots; her staff was as plain as a military quarterstaff, and she carried a small knife at her belt. Her dark brown hair fell in untidy waves around her shoulders and half concealed one eye from view.

Juliet Hawke wasn't quite as Cecily had pictured her, but there was something in the way she carried herself that spoke of confidence, of power. Cecily had no trouble imagining this woman facing down a Qunari Arishok.

The Champion spotted them first. A wide smile spread across her face. "Varric!"

Varric returned the smile in kind. "Hawke! Good of you to come." He stretched his hand towards her.

"I've been crying myself to sleep without my trusty dwarf. How could I stay away?" Hawke reached out and clasped Varric's forearm. The easy familiarity of the gesture spoke volumes. "Maker, but it's good to hear your voice again, Varric."

"Right back at you, Hawke." Varric looked over her shoulder. "And you brought Fenris! Nice to see you, elf. Are there any slavers still foolish enough to leave Tevinter?"

The elf's mouth quirked. "Always."

"Well, keep at it. You may kill them all yet."

"I shall enjoy the attempt." Cecily strongly suspected Fenris wasn't joking.

Varric turned to her. "Inquisitor Trevelyan, allow me to present my friends. This is Fenris, scourge to slavers everywhere. And this is Juliet Hawke. Since you've read my book, I'll assume she needs no other introduction."

Protocol lessons hadn't prepared Cecily for meeting a living legend, so she settled on a slight curtsy, the kind a hostess would make to a visitor of equal or greater rank. "Serrah Fenris. Serrah Hawke. It is an honor to welcome the Champion of Kirkwall to Skyhold."

After a slight pause, Fenris gave her an awkward half-bow and Hawke extended her hand to shake Cecily's. "Thank you for the welcome, Inquisitor," the Champion said. "Although I don't use the Champion title much anymore. So. Corypheus. Not dead?"

"Not even a little, apparently," Varric sighed. "You and the Inquisitor have a lot to discuss."

* * *

It took the better part of an hour for Hawke to explain how and why she'd fought Corypheus. The Champion was unsettlingly certain that she'd killed him—which meant that they were probably dealing with a creature that could come back from the dead.

In theory the Grey Wardens, who had imprisoned Corypheus in the first place, should have been their best lead, but according to Hawke's brother something was terribly wrong with the Wardens. The Champion had thrown herself into helping Carver and a small, scattered band of his comrades figure out what was going on. Their next step was clear: find Hawke's contact Stroud, who had been headed to Crestwood.

With that established, Varric left to find Hawke and Fenris a place to sleep for the night. Then Fenris murmured something in Hawke's ear, said "Please excuse me, Inquisitor," and slipped off as well. Cecily found herself alone on the Skyhold battlements with the Champion of Kirkwall.

 _Maker, please don't let me embarrass myself._

"Is Serrah Fenris all right?" she asked politely.

Hawke nodded. "He likes to map all of the potential exits before he spends the night in a place—a habit he acquired after he escaped his former master. At Skyhold that might take him a while." She sighed. "I tried to talk him out of coming here. Aveline even found him a nice slaving ring to go after, but he insisted on following me instead. Not that I'm not glad for his company. I am. But … I know he would die to protect me. I prefer to limit his opportunities to do so."

Cecily wasn't sure what to say to that. Hawke smiled ruefully and changed the topic. "So. Inquisitor. That's quite a title. Does it come with a hat? All good titles ought to come with fancy hats."

"No. But it came with a very large ceremonial sword that nearly broke my arm when I lifted it. Seeker Cassandra tends to forget that not all of us are hardened warriors," Cecily said wryly.

"Ah yes, the Seeker." The Champion's blue eyes glinted. "Varric had some interesting things to say about her. He also had quite a bit to say about you." She crossed her arms and looked at Cecily, clearly appraising her. Cecily fought the urge to stand up straighter. "I must say I was surprised to hear that Varric had gotten involved with the Inquisition. He's never been one for religion. You've obviously made an impression on him."

"I'm glad," Cecily said honestly. "I like him—and I think he keeps the Inquisition a bit more grounded."

"Take good care of him, all right?" Hawke's tone was light, but there was deep affection in her voice as well, and a bit of worry. "Sure, he'll make up crazy stories about you and it's hard to get a straight answer out of him sometimes. But once he's decided you're worth the trouble, he's got your back for life. And he's decided. I can tell."

* * *

As the two women descended from the battlements, they ran into the Inquisition's Commander. In Cecily's case, literally; she rounded a corner and crashed into him with slightly embarrassing force.

"Cecily! Inquisitor. My apologies," he said, reaching out a hand to steady her.

Cecily started to say something about how it was entirely her fault—since it was—but Cullen's attention had snapped to the person with her.

Hawke's mouth dropped opened and her eyes went wide. "Knight-Captain!"

Cecily took a step back and looked warily between them. The two were clearly surprised to see one another, but she sensed no hostility.

The Commander inclined his head. "Champion."

The other mage shook her head and chuckled bitterly. "Just Hawke, if you don't mind."

Cullen grimaced sympathetically. "Serrah Hawke, then. It is good to see you well. And as for me—it's Commander now. I am no longer with the Templar Order."

"I take it you didn't like the Order's new red lyrium retirement plan," Hawke said.

Cullen barked out a laugh. "No, I can't say that I did."

"Probably a good choice." Hawke pushed her hair back. "I … I don't know if you want my thanks, for what you did in the Gallows. But you have them."

"And you have mine."

"For what?" Hawke said. "For playing my heroic role in the destruction of a city?"

Cecily tried to keep the shock from her face. Was that truly how Hawke saw the rebellion at Kirkwall—how she saw herself?

"Kirkwall would have destroyed itself with or without you, Serrah Hawke," Cullen said gravely. "The conflict between Orsino and Meredith was not of your making."

"And Anders?" Hawke asked, her jaw tightening.

Cullen sighed. "Yes. Anders. I do not envy you that burden. But I cannot judge you for not anticipating his plan. How could I, when I stood at Meredith's side and did not see how mad she'd become? In the end it was his choice, not yours."

The two of them simply watched each other for a moment. Cecily waited silently, not wanting to interrupt something that was clearly so important to both of them. Finally, Cullen spoke again. "Lives were saved because you were in Kirkwall, Champion—Hawke. Never doubt that."

Hawke met the former Templar's gaze. "The same goes for you, Commander."

Cullen inclined his head again, a gesture something like a bow. "Serrah Hawke. Inquisitor." And with that, he walked past them, off into some other decrepit area of Skyhold.

Cecily looked over at Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall looked a bit rattled, but also … satisfied, in some odd way.

"What was that about?" Cecily blurted.

Hawke turned to her. "Ah. I'm sorry, that was rude of me. I suppose you knew Cullen was the Knight-Captain of the Kirkwall Circle."

"I did. He said he'd met you," Cecily said tentatively.

Hawke nodded. "He … well, Varric will tell it better than I can, but when Meredith went mad, Cullen tried to stop her."

Cecily tried to wrap her mind around the fact that the Champion of Kirkwall was personally telling her the story of the mage rebellion.

"Even after I killed Orsino, Meredith wanted my head," Hawke continued. "And I mean that quite literally. I think she was planning to have it stuffed and mounted. Cullen—he stepped between us. He told her she'd gone too far and tried to relieve her of her command." She let out a little puff of breath in an amazed laugh. "We didn't know each other well. To be honest I thought he was a fairly typical Templar. I nearly died of shock when he drew his sword."

"Wait. That really happened? That was _Cullen_?" Cecily asked.

"Right, Varric said you'd read _The Tale of the Champion,_ " Hawke said. "Yes. Varric didn't put his name in the book because he thought it might cause Cullen trouble with the Order. But he fought side-by-side with us when she drew that red lyrium sword. _Maker_ , that battle." Hawke shook her head as if she still couldn't believe it. "She made the bloody statues come to life—Varric left that out of the book too, he said no one would believe it. And at the end of it, Cullen made the Templars stand down, and he let me and my friends walk away. Now that he's quit the Order I should tell Varric to put his name in the second edition. Provided the world doesn't end, I mean."

"He never … he's talked about Kirkwall, but not about the battle after the Chantry explosion. I know he blames himself for not stopping Meredith earlier," Cecily said.

Hawke sighed. "I know how he feels. But I think he's a good man, your Commander. I'm glad he got a second chance away from the Templars."

 _I am too,_ Cecily thought.

* * *

Cecily's first official duty as Inquisitor was preventing Cassandra from strangling Varric. She did what she could to soothe the Seeker, but it would be a while before she and the dwarf could safely be in the same room together.

Then Josephine pulled her aside to show her the new Skyhold throne. Cecily managed to say something polite about what an impressive throne it was, when what she wanted to do was run screaming into the mountains at the sight of the blasted thing. Judging people? Her? As if she didn't have enough to do with Corypheus on the loose?

When Josephine released her, Cecily sought out Cullen.

The Commander had claimed a nearby tower as his office, and was attempting to repair a damaged wall when Cecily found him. He had removed his armor for the task—the first time Cecily had seen him without it. She took a moment to notice how his shoulders and arms looked in his close-fitting shirt, then another to scold herself for the inappropriate observation. _You're not here to ogle the poor man, Trevelyan._

"May I help?" she asked, raising her hand and letting her magic swirl gently in the air.

Cullen looked over at her. "Inquisitor! If you're willing, I would be most grateful," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Cecily coiled her magic around the pile of beams and bricks Cullen had been wrestling with; carefully, she lifted them, rearranged them, and slid them back into the wall.

Cullen shook his head. "Maker. Where were you an hour ago? Not that … I mean, I know you have much more important things to do." He paused. "So Varric brought Hawke here?"

"He did indeed. She was glad to see you, you know."

Cullen looked wary. "Oh?"

"She said you fought beside her at the Gallows. That you tried to stop Meredith." Cecily tried to think of what to say. "I … I'm sorry I was so cold, after I found out about Kirkwall."

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. "You had every right. The things from the book, the things I said, I can't imagine how you wouldn't hate me."

"I never hated you!" Cecily said quickly. "I just felt … I don't know. I wondered if you might still feel the same way about mages. Even though you've been nothing but kind to me since we met," she finished ruefully. "Not just kind. A friend."

"Until I left you in Haven." Cullen's mouth twisted; his scar stood out white against the faint growth of his beard.

The guilt in his voice hurt to hear. "Cullen, it was the only way. You know that. And you didn't leave me. I stayed."

"It was the only option," Cullen admitted, crossing his arms. "But it was a bad one. You could have … I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. You have my word."

Unsure of what to say, Cecily tentatively reached out her hand and placed it on his forearm. She gave it what she hoped was a comforting squeeze. "Don't ever doubt yourself, Commander. _Cullen_. We are lucky to have you."

Cullen's mouth quirked; he dropped his gaze to her hand, then covered it with his own. "Thank you, Inquisitor. Cecily."

"I should let you get back to work," she said after a moment, pulling her hand back, hoping he didn't notice her blush.

"Indeed," Cullen said, clearing his throat a bit. "Now that you've fixed my wall, I suppose I ought to see what I can do about my desk."

Cecily looked doubtfully at the desk in question—more of a table, really. It had clearly been salvaged from somewhere in Skyhold's wreckage; it had chunks of stone supporting two of its legs, and looked exceptionally splinter-prone.

"I wish you luck," she said wryly, making a mental note to have the quartermaster order him a real desk as she stepped out into the afternoon light.

* * *

Cullen held himself together until the door to his tower closed, until he was sure Cecily was out of earshot. Then he leaned against the wall and half-laughed, half-sobbed.

She didn't hate him.

For a moment that knowledge almost drowned out the pain. But then it returned in a wave, the feeling that his blood had turned to needles and was stabbing him from the inside out. He slid down against the newly-repaired wall, breathing deeply, waiting for the attack to pass.

 _It's getting worse._

 _At least she doesn't hate me._

 _Perhaps she should._


	10. Chapter 10

**Kinloch Hold, 9:30 Dragon**

The situation at the Circle tower was far worse than anyone anticipated. Leliana did not scale the tower with Naia, so she waited on the ground floor as survivors were sent down. There were depressingly few of them.

When Leliana saw Cullen, she wondered if that might have been a mercy.

The abominations had kept the mages alive because they might prove useful; they had kept the Templars alive for amusement. The young man had been tortured, viciously, and in ways that not even Leliana could identify. His face was yellowed and hollow, his eyes were wild, and he shrank even from his fellow Templars, whispering something about illusions, demons, tricks.

Knight-Commander Greagoir did his best to soothe Cullen, and finally managed to persuade him to take a sleeping draught. The Templar lieutenant choked up half of it, and never did close his eyes, but the drug seemed to calm him somewhat. He lay down on a cot in their makeshift infirmary and was quieter, at least; but he was still mumbling and feverish, and his eyes were focused on a spot in the distance that only he seemed to be able to see.

"He is not well," Leliana told the Warden bluntly, when she came to see how he was. "What he has gone through—it is more than anyone should have to bear." She pitched her voice low, although she wasn't convinced that Cullen could hear her.

The elf sighed and shook her head. She stepped over to the lieutenant's cot and gave him a long look. "Maybe Wynne can—"

She stopped short when Cullen reached out and seized her wrist.

"You should have killed them," he rasped.

Naia stiffened and her eyes narrowed to slits, but her expression softened when her gaze fell to the Templar's hand. Two of his fingers were twisted at unnatural angles and were deep purple with bruising, and his fingernails were either shattered or missing, leaving his fingertips coated with dirt and blood. Leliana wondered if they had done that to him, or if he had done it himself while trying to escape his prison.

The Warden twisted her wrist and carefully freed herself. "I killed the ones who did this to you," she assured him.

" _All of them,_ " the Templar insisted, his voice shaking. "There is corruption in this Circle. Every mage here has been subject to blood magic and demons. You are a damned fool if you think any of them should still live."

"They weren't all malificarum," Naia said gently. "The ones who live deserved to be saved."

Cullen laughed—a harsh, ugly noise—and turned his face towards the wall. "Idiot girl."

Naia closed her eyes and her shoulders sagged. Leliana knew that expression; the Warden saw that there was nothing she could do for this man.

"Wynne said he was one of the nice ones. He won't ever be the same, will he?" Naia asked as they left the infirmary.

"No." Leliana's voice came out more sharply than she'd intended. "He may recover, with time, and help," she amended. "But no. He will not be the same."

Naia looked over at her and tilted her head slightly. Leliana wondered if the other woman could sense that she was speaking from experience. Probably so. The Warden had a disconcerting way of puzzling those sorts of things out. She braced herself for the inevitable questions.

But all Naia said was, "Do you think there's any way to bring back Uldred so I can kill him again?"

Leliana smiled sadly. "It would not help the boy."

The Warden's answering smile had a sharp edge to it. "Wouldn't _hurt_."

* * *

 **The mountains above Haven, 9:41 Dragon**

It had been a day since Haven's destruction. It felt like a lifetime—or sometimes like a minute, or sometimes like it hadn't happened at all, that Haven had been just an awful figment of Leliana's imagination.

The Inquisition's spymaster walked close to the front of their party, her scout's eyes scanning the landscape, hoping to spot whatever it was that the Herald was leading them toward, whatever Solas had told her was there. It wasn't that she didn't trust the elf—actually, no, it was exactly that. But there were few people Leliana would have trusted with the fate of the entire Inquisition.

Cecily, on the other hand, moved through the snow with utter confidence, her face almost serene, only occasionally glancing at Solas for confirmation, which he gave with a subtle nod.

 _The Herald believes him, and so, I suppose, must I._

Varric and The Iron Bull trailed close behind the Herald and Solas. Leliana had heard Cullen ask Bull to remain near the Herald and act as her bodyguard—a wise idea, one Leliana should have thought of herself. Varric was there because Cecily was always a receptive audience for his stories. The one he was finishing now was about how his friend Daisy had gotten lost and wound up in the Viscount's bath chamber, to the deep consternation of the Viscount's house staff.

"Fortunately, Hawke put enough coin in the right hands to make them forget the whole thing ever happened. After that I got Daisy a ball of twine so she could find her way home without winding up in the Keep," Varric finished.

Cecily and The Iron Bull were both laughing, and even Solas let out a soft chuckle. Normally Leliana would have joined them, but today the sound of laugher felt almost unbearable. All she could think about was the agents she'd pulled back. The ones she should have left in the field. Could their work, their information, have given them warning about the attack? Could Haven have been saved?

The dwarf looked over at Leliana. If he recognized her dark mood, he didn't show it. "What about you, Sister?"

Leliana frowned, puzzled. "Me?"

"For a bard, you tell surprisingly few tales. I've told everyone about Hawke. What about the Hero of Ferelden?"

"What about her?"

"Well, come on, you must have some stories. Is it true she'd never held a sword before the Wardens recruited her from her alienage?" Varric asked.

"A pretty tale, but no," Leliana said. "Her mother trained her—and trained her well. She could not have survived the Blight otherwise."

Varric groaned. "You're letting facts get in the way of a perfectly good story, Sister. Are you sure you used to do this professionally?"

Leliana smiled a bit. "I could not lie about Naia. I feel certain she would know, somehow. But she is the most naturally gifted fighter I have ever met. You have only to show her something once and she will learn it, and then improve it. She is beautiful to watch. She moves quickly, with precision and control, no motion wasted. You can imagine the effect in battle."

The Iron Bull cleared his throat. "She's a redhead, right?" he asked.

Cecily giggled at that, for some reason.

"You would like her, Solas," Leliana continued.

"Because she's an elf?" Solas asked archly.

"No—though she would have asked me the same thing. Because she is endlessly curious. I have never known anyone with so many questions!" Leliana felt herself slowly warming to the topic. "We had a Sten with our party. Naia had never even heard of the Qunari before we met him. She used to walk alongside Sten and ask him question after question. 'What if someone doesn't like their job in the Qun? Why can't women be warriors in the Qun? Isn't it confusing not to have names in the Qun? What if there were another Sten here, would we call you Sten 1 and Sten 2?'"

She laughed. "He would give her such short answers, but this only seemed to make her ask more questions. After a few months, he started calling her by a Qunari word—'kadan.' At first I thought it must mean 'pest.'"

"Well. That's not a word most Sten would use on a bas." Bull sounded mildly impressed.

When Cecily looked over at him, he explained, "'Kadan' means 'friend.' Literally, 'my heart.' It's a word we save for the people we care about most."

"And ... that is Naia," Leliana said simply. "She earns the devotion of the most unlikely people. She is not naive, and if she thinks you are wrong she will tell you so. But she chooses to see the best in her friends. It makes us want to be the person that she sees."

An ugly little voice rose in the back of her mind. _And what would she see to look at you now, Nightingale?_

 _If she even lives._

The last time they had spoken, the normally cheerful Warden had been serious and frustrated. She had told Leliana that strange things were happening in the Wardens, that Commanders in Orlais and even in the Anderfels seemed to be moving to isolate her. They had sent her most trusted lieutenant, Nathaniel Howe, into the Deep Roads; there were even hints that the Orlesian Wardens were supporting the rumor that the Fifth Blight had not been a true Blight at all.

Leliana had attributed this to a combination of professional jealousy and Orlesian prejudice against elves. Naia had insisted that there was something else going on, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, but that her instincts told her must be there.

And then, she had disappeared.

Leliana pushed the thought down. "I met Naia in Lothering," she began, forcing a lightness into her voice that she didn't feel.

 _Wherever she is, I cannot help her now._

* * *

 **Adamant Fortress, 9:41 Dragon**

Leliana's heart skipped a beat with every cell door she opened. Would this be the one? Would this be the room where she found the body of a red-haired elven woman?

Naia Tabris would have either stopped the Wardens from committing the horrors at Adamant, or died trying. Leliana had no doubt that if she found her friend here it would be as a corpse.

The cells did contain bodies, including one of a human woman whose coppery hair was frighteningly close to Naia's. But after hours of searching, and after lengthy questioning of the surviving Wardens, Leliana concluded that Naia was not, and never had been, at Adamant.

The Hero of Ferelden was still missing. For the first time, that knowledge brought Leliana relief.


	11. Chapter 11

Cullen and his soldiers were sweeping the battlements of the fortress when Clarel's magic struck the dragon—and shattered the bridge holding Cecily's small team.

It felt as if time slowed as he watched it happen. The bridge collapsed; the Inquisitor fell. He found himself running—not in time to prevent her fall, but just in time to reach the edge of the crumbling bridge, to see the flash of green enveloping her and the others before they hit the ground.

" _No_!"

For a moment Cullen thought he had voiced his horror aloud. But it had been Fenris, who had been just far enough from the bridge to miss falling with the Inquisitor.

"Hawke!" the elf screamed, falling to his knees and staring at the ground below, his eyes wide and desperate.

Varric ran to his side. "Shit! What happened?"

Fenris opened his hands helplessly. "I ... they fell, and they vanished."

"The Inquisitor opened a rift," Cullen said, his voice flat. He felt numb.

"A rift to the Fade?" Fenris's eyes turned cold. "Hawke's in the Fade? In the flesh?" His hands tightened to fists, and the tattoos on his arms began to flare with blue light. Cullen tried not to stare.

Varric grimaced. "Okay, that's ... not great," he admitted. "But Hawke's come out of the Fade before." Cullen had to give the dwarf credit; he sounded almost optimistic. "And you wouldn't believe the shit that the Inquisitor has escaped. She dropped a damned mountain on her own head and walked out with barely a hair out of place."

That wasn't how Cullen remembered Haven, to put it mildly, but he decided not to correct Varric. He crossed his arms and turned from the bridge, redirecting his attention to his soldiers. There was nothing he could do for the Inquisitor now except make sure the battle was finished when she returned.

If she returned.

How many more times could Cecily escape seemingly certain death?

 _One more. Please, Maker. Grant her at least one more._

* * *

"If this is the afterlife, the Chantry owes me an apology. This is nothing like the Maker's bosom," Hawke said. Cecily had to tilt her head up to find the source of her voice—the Champion appeared to be hanging from the ceiling.

"It's not the afterlife. We're in the Fade," replied Solas, looking around, his eyes wide with wonder.

"The Fade." Stroud's voice was so stoic that Cecily couldn't tell if he was frightened, annoyed, or bored. The fact that he was standing on a wall to her left didn't help, either.

"I had never thought to be here in the flesh," Solas said. "Inquisitor, this is extraordinary! Look, the Black City, almost close enough to touch."

"You're _enjoying_ this?" Blackwall asked, clearly appalled.

"I must agree. I fail to see why this is an encouraging development," Stroud ground out, looking around the green-and-gray landscape with extreme distaste.

 _Annoyed, then._

Cecily couldn't blame Blackwall or Stroud. Half of her was fascinated; the other half, terrified. _I got them all here. Can I get them back out?_

"At least we're not splattered on the rocks below Adamant," Hawke pointed out, stepping carefully down to the same ground where Cecily was standing. "I'm not inclined to be picky about how it happened. My thanks, Inquisitor."

"You may want to wait on thanks until I figure out how to get back out of here," Cecily replied. She focused on the mark, tried to draw on its power. It pulsed in response, but nothing else happened.

"I've been in the Fade before, but it wasn't like this," the Champion said thoughtfully. "Perhaps it's because we're here in the flesh, and not dreaming? Was it like this when you stepped out of the Fade at Haven?"

Cecily shook her head. "Perhaps. I don't remember," she said absently, her eyes scanning the landscape. She raised her eyes to the horizon and focused on a swirling green patch in the odd sky. "That must be the rift the Wardens were using," she said, with more confidence than she felt. "Come on, maybe we can use it to get back to Adamant."

* * *

The first thing Hawke noticed about being in the Fade physically was how empty it felt. It looked as if it should feel clammy, but Hawke felt neither cold nor warm—in fact, she felt few physical sensations at all, even when she stepped in what looked like a puddle. The not-water ran off her boots and didn't even soak in. Hawke almost wished it would. Wet socks were never pleasant, but they would have been nice reassurance that she still existed.

Of course, it turned out that being clawed by a shade still hurt quite a lot in this place. So there was that.

With few other options, the group followed the spirit who had taken on Justinia's form, allowing it to guide them through the fear demon's domain. The demon, predictably, began needling each of them in turn. Stroud had failed the Wardens. Blackwall was nothing like a Warden at all. The Iron Bull would make an ideal host. It spoke to Solas in Elvish and the mage replied in kind. Hawke wished Merrill were there to translate; she still wasn't sure whether she trusted Solas. Her father's first rule of magic had been "don't talk to demons," but Solas seemed all too comfortable chatting with any number of spirits in this strange place.

Eventually, the demon turned its attention to Hawke.

"Did you think you mattered, _Champion_?" it chortled as she struck down one of its shades. "That anything you ever did _mattered_? You couldn't even save your city. How could you expect to strike down a god?"

Hawke was almost offended by the lack of effort in the insult. _As if I've never been mocked by a demon before._ "Tell me something I don't know. Then I might be afraid," she called. _Sorry, Father._

The demon paused—but its retort was brutal. "Was Fenris on that bridge, Hawke? He is going die, you know, if he hasn't already. Just like your family."

"Oh, splendid. Let me guess what comes next," Hawke sniped, choking back the bile that rose in her throat. "Then Carver will die, and Varric and Aveline, and Isabela and Merrill. Don't bother threatening Anders, by the way. We're not on speaking terms."

She kept her face calm—as if it mattered. As if the right expression could stop the demon from feasting on her greatest fear: Fenris, dead because she could not save him.

But the demon had moved on. "And what about you, Herald of Andraste?" it mocked. "They've made you their Inquisitor, they believe that you can lead them, but you know the truth. You're just a sheltered little Circle mage, too ignorant and weak to accomplish what is needed. You are a mistake. You will fail. You are _nothing_."

The Inquisitor raised her chin, but said nothing.

The demon chuckled. "Perhaps I will take your body for myself, Inquisitor. Mages are such delicious vessels, and there are so many interesting things we could do to all those people who trust you. Why don't we begin with the Commander? It will be a fitting fate for a former Templar."

The Inquisitor closed her eyes-but only for a moment, and so quickly Hawke almost thought she had imagined it. Then she looked around at her companions and said, "Is everyone all right?"

"Yes, Inquisitor," Solas said.

"Fine, boss," the Qunari rumbled.

"All right, Inquisitor," Blackwall echoed.

Stroud merely nodded.

Hawke studied Cecily for a moment, watching the Fade's odd green light reflect off her cheeks and her pale hair. The first time she had met the woman at Skyhold, she had been reminded of Bethany: a mage, kind and careful, not yet certain of her own strength. But here, in the Fade, before the demon who controlled this place, the Inquisitor seemed confident—almost coldly so.

Hawke's chest tightened in sympathy. She'd been in Cecily's shoes before. She didn't need the fear demon's taunts to suspect that the Inquisitor's confidence was a front.

"I'm terrific," she piped up. "In fact, I think this is the nicest ruled-by-a-fear-demon part of the Fade that I've ever been in. Shall we continue our tour?"

Cecily turned to Hawke and smiled, her large gray eyes crinkled in amusement. "My pleasure, Serrah Hawke," she said with a little bow. "Good, then. Everyone, we're going to ignore that thing and keep moving."

* * *

The fear demon's words still echoed in Hawke's mind when she tumbled out of the Fade. _Was Fenris on that bridge, Hawke? He is going to die, you know, if he hasn't already._

Even so, she did not almost burst into tears when she saw Fenris running towards her.

He caught her in his arms and pulled her close. "Hawke," he whispered. "Don't do that sort of thing to me."

She held him tight. "I don't do it by choice, you know."

"I'm starting to wonder," he murmured.

Hawke ran her hand up the back of his neck and into his hair, and then moved her mouth to his, kissing him hard enough to make everything from the Fade fall away.


	12. Chapter 12

It felt like hours, but it was probably less than one, before the rift in the Adamant courtyard flared and spat out something other than demons. One by one they tumbled out—Solas, Blackwall, The Iron Bull, Hawke.

Cecily, of course, came last. She turned to the rift, her eyes bright with anger, and clenched her left hand. The rift snapped shut.

Cullen's relief was so strong that, for a moment, he didn't realize that the party was missing one. Only Cecily's pained expression alerted him to the fact that something was wrong. Stroud had not returned with them.

Cullen wished he could go to her, but held himself back. The Inquisition's Commander could not fuss over the Inquisitor as if she were made of glass—as if they were something other than colleagues.

There were no such limitations on Fenris, however. The elf practically flew to Hawke and folded her into a relieved embrace. The Champion hugged him back, then kissed him, apparently caring little about who might be watching. It was a side of the sharp-tongued apostate that Cullen had not seen before, and he soon averted his eyes, feeling odd about watching such a moment.

And not a little envious.

He turned his attention to Cecily as she faced the surviving Wardens. The Inquisitor stood straight and calm as she began to speak; Cullen wondered if anyone else saw how much that calm was costing her.

* * *

Cecily's initial relief at learning the truth—that her own choices and a healthy dose of happenstance had been responsible for giving her the Anchor—had quickly given way to dread. She had never relished the title of Herald of Andraste, but she knew it meant a great deal to others.

She had thought about calling the Inquisition's core group together, as she had after Redcliffe, but Josephine, Leliana, Cullen and Cassandra had been the ones who started the Inquisition, who chose her as their Inquisitor. They needed to know the truth.

The others could learn later. _After I figure out how to tell them._

"In the Fade, we met a spirit," she said, trying to think of how to explain her strange tale. "Not the demon. A spirit who had taken on the form of … who said she _was_ Divine Justinia."

Leliana's knees folded; she sat down in the nearest chair, her face slack with shock. Josephine placed a comforting hand on the spymaster's back.

Not for the first time, Cecily wished for more of Varric's talent with tales. She felt so clumsy trying to describe what had happened in the Fade, how the spirit had helped her recover the memories of the Conclave, the facts that those memories revealed.

"And that's how it happened," she finished. "I interrupted Corypheus during the ritual and stole the anchor he intended for himself. The Divine and I escaped him through the Fade—and then the Divine sacrificed herself so I could return from it." _This is rather a pattern_ , she thought, swallowing hard. _Maker. How many lives have been lost to save mine?_

"That sounds very like her," Leliana murmured. Her eyes shone with unshed tears.

"It was the Divine that people saw behind me, not Andraste. Without her, I ... I'm so sorry, Leliana," Cecily burst out, tears rising in her own eyes.

"She died a good death," Cassandra said, her voice even graver than usual. "The Maker knew we would need the Anchor—that we would need you. The Divine must have known it as well."

The certainty in the Seeker's voice took Cecily's breath away. _Cassandra still believes the Maker sent me_ , she realized, stunned.

She opened her mouth to argue—and then closed it. _What I call chance, Cassandra will call the Maker's will._

 _And what proof do I have that it's not?_

She turned her eyes to Josephine and Cullen, the two who had been drawn to the Inquisition by more practical concerns. Josephine spoke first. "You did well to bring the Wardens to our cause," she said calmly. "Even after all that has occurred, their support will build trust in the Inquisition."

Cullen nodded his agreement. "I will not pretend that our soldiers will welcome Warden allies easily, after Adamant. But they know Corypheus is wily. We will make sure they see that the Wardens were tricked, that they are here to make amends."

Cecily let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. "Good. Then … that's all for now. We should all get some rest."

One by one, her advisors filed out of the room. Josephine stayed close behind Leliana, lending the support of their long friendship simply by being present. Cecily swallowed hard, fighting a wave of guilt. Cassandra left after them, her face serious, but not unhappy.

And then she was alone with Cullen.

"It changes nothing, you know," he said softly, his expression kind.

Cecily bit her lip. "You're right. No matter what I believe about how this happened, or why, others will believe it was the Maker's will—that I was chosen for this." She opened and closed the fingers on her left hand. "But it feels as if it _should_ matter. I'm just a person, Cullen. I happened to the Inquisition by accident. I make mistakes. I could fail. And if I do, that faith in me will cost lives." She dropped her gaze to the side, fighting exhaustion, trying not to cry. "Maker, what am I saying? It already has."

She felt the Commander's hand settle on her right shoulder. "What's been asked of you—what _we_ have asked of you—is not easy," he said.

"And what we ask of you is?" she choked, her voice thick. "Listen to me. As if I'm the only one here with a burden of responsibility."

Cullen's eyes fell to the mark. "It is different, I think, when people call you the Herald of Andraste, when you and you alone seem to be the object of our enemy's wrath. But whether it was chance or providence or something else that gave you the mark … Cecily, every success we've had we've owed to you. That faith in you, it's not blind. You've earned it."

For a moment, Cecily had to fight the impulse to turn and kiss him, to chase away everything she was feeling by pressing her mouth to his. But that would have been greedy, and desperate, and probably humiliating. So instead, she forced herself to smile. "That means a great deal. Truly, it does."

Cullen's eyes searched her face; he seemed to sense that she was still uneasy. He squeezed her shoulder. "It is late. We should both sleep—take a draught, if you find you can't. We'll begin the trip back to Skyhold on the morrow."

Cecily looked around the shattered fortress. "I'll be glad to see the end of this place," she said feelingly.

* * *

 _Skyhold throne room, cold, empty. Cullen looked around, and around, and suddenly, there she was._

 _"You're looking for me," Cecily said, smiling._

 _"Yes," he admitted._

 _"Whatever for, I wonder?" she asked playfully, taking a step towards him, and another._

 _Cullen couldn't speak. She didn't seem to mind. Another step brought her close enough to touch him, to slide her body against his and brush her lips across his. Cullen wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back, as easily as if he'd done it a thousand times before._

 _The kiss turned sharp and painful. Her fingers turned to claws and pierced his flesh; her mouth bit into his. Cullen pulled away, saw her twisting, growing, changing from a woman to a monster._

 _Abomination._

 _There was a sword in his hand. He planted his feet and swung it, desperately. The creature fell back, collapsed-but when it struck the floor it became Cecily again, limbs grotesquely askew, her fair hair stained with blood, her eyes frozen in shock, her mouth open, still asking why._

 _He screamed. The walls shifted, began closing in._

 _"We've seen what you want and what you fear, little Templar," a thousand dark voices hissed. "Now the fun begins."_

 _And then, pain._

Cullen found himself alone, in the dark, curled up in agony, struggling to breathe. It was some time before he realized he was awake, and at Adamant, and the pain came from lyrium withdrawal.

It took longer for him to believe that the scene in Skyhold had been a dream.


	13. Chapter 13

The main body of the Inquisition began the march back to Skyhold the next morning. While Cecily did feel better after a night's sleep, she decided to remain in the Western Approach to close any rifts that might have been opened in the area. She was grateful for Skyhold, for the sanctuary it offered the Inquisition, but right now she didn't think she could stand having people bow and murmur "Inquisitor" every time she turned a corner.

Dorian, Sera, and The Iron Bull agreed to remain with her. She'd chosen this group carefully. The elf's aggressive disrespect for "all that world-ending Chantry shite" was a blessed relief after the business in the Fade, and neither Dorian nor The Iron Bull was much for bowing and mumbling her title at her, or discussing the finer points of the Inquisition's theological foundations. They seemed far more interested in sniping at each other—which Cecily realized she should have anticipated, given that Dorian was Tevinter and The Iron Bull Qunari (or a "vint" and an "ox," depending on who you asked).

A week later they'd closed four rifts, claimed a fortress, and Cecily thought she could sit on the Inquisitor's throne for more than ten minutes without going mad. It was time to return to Skyhold.

"Sounds good," said The Iron Bull when she told him that night in camp. "Listen, boss. When we get back there, I think you should go for it."

"Go for what?" Cecily asked, lifting her cup as her eyes scanned the camp for Sera. She felt more secure when she knew where the elf was.

"Cullen, of course," Bull said impatiently.

Cecily choked on her water. "I … what?" she gasped between coughs.

The Qunari clapped her on the back. "Come on, boss. I know how to read people. You. Want. Cullen."

Cecily felt the blood drain from her face. "Oh dear. I … am I that obvious? That's embarrassing."

The Iron Bull threw his head back and groaned. "You people make this into such a tortured thing. Why should it be embarrassing?"

Cecily set down her cup. "First of all, because it sounds like the start of a bad romantic novel. A Circle mage with a crush on a Templar knight-captain. Ugh."

"But you're not in the Circle any more, and he's not even a Templar now. You're both available, you like each other, so go for it already." He grinned. "You know, _click-click_."

"I can't just, uh, _click-click_ with Cullen," Cecily said. "He's not a _click-click_ kind of person, really."

The Iron Bull looked appalled. "Don't tell me Templars take some sort of celibacy oath."

"No!" Cecily corrected quickly. "Well, most don't. I'm not sure if Cullen did. I can't exactly ask him something like that."

"Why not?" The Iron Bull sounded genuinely puzzled.

Cecily pinched the bridge of her nose. _I'm not going to be able to explain "propriety" to him, am I?_ "I just meant that he wouldn't take ... that sort of thing ... casually."

Bull's eye crinkled in amusement. "Neither would you, boss."

"Right, so it would be serious, and complicated." Cecily went on. "And what if he's not interested? Or if things go wrong? He's the Commander of our forces! The Inquisition needs him—probably more than they need me, when you come right down to it."

"Well, that's bullshit," Bull said, sounding surprisingly angry at the thought. "Hell, you were unconscious for what, two hours after Haven? Your advisors couldn't hold their shit together even that long."

"They were upset! It was a stressful evening, as you might recall," Cecily protested.

Bull snorted. "I told you back in Haven that this thing needs a boss. You're it and you're it for a reason. Don't pretend you don't know that, it's annoying."

"If I'm the boss why do you feel comfortable giving me so much shit?" Cecily shot back. The curse word felt a bit strange in her mouth, but the Maker didn't strike her down on the spot, so she supposed it was all right.

The mercenary chuckled. "I'm insubordinate. And I like you."

"You torment me because you like me? You must _adore_ Dorian, then," Cecily said wryly.

The Iron Bull shrugged, his face suddenly unreadable. "Wouldn't kick him out of bed," he said, with careful nonchalance.

Cecily's eyebrows raised in surprise. That hadn't been what she'd meant—and she could see from Bull's face that he'd just admitted more than he intended. He crossed his arms uncomfortably. "Anyway. You deserve to relax like anyone else. So, plant one on your Commander and relax already."

Cecily decided to allow the obvious change in topic; she filed away Bull's crush (if one could call it a _crush_ , when it was being carried by a six-and-a-half-foot Qunari warrior) to consider it later. "You just want to laugh at me if Cullen turns me down," she teased.

"If I thought he'd turn you down I wouldn't be giving you this advice, boss. When you're not looking he stares at your ass and then looks all guilty and tormented. You'd be doing him a favor if you told him you've been staring at his too."

"That's really the line you're suggesting? 'Cullen, I think you should know I've been staring at your …'" Cecily fumbled and blushed. "I can't say that even when he's _not_ here!"

"Then don't say anything," Bull advised. "Just go to Cullen's room and wait for him in his bed. Naked. He'll get the message."

Cecily laughed. "You know, after we kill Corypheus, you should write erotica. I'll tell Varric to put you in touch with his publisher. You'll be a sensation." She tried to look as if her mind hadn't gotten stuck at _Cullen_ and _bed_ and _naked_.

"You're thinking about it, aren't you?" Bull said gleefully.

"Certainly not," Cecily said, trying to channel Vivienne at her iciest.

"Whatever you say, boss." The Iron Bull leaned in close and lowered his voice. "But if you happen to find Cullen naked in your bed, you'll know who to thank."

"The terrifying thing is, I half believe you'll do it," she sighed.

 _The_ really _terrifying thing is, I half wish he would._

* * *

Leliana buried herself in her work as soon as she returned to Skyhold. For once, the sight of papers piled high on her desk was welcome; she needed the distraction, badly.

Halfway through the pile, one of the reports broke her concentration. It was short, barely a paragraph, and took Leliana only minutes to decode. But she re-read it four times to be certain.

 _A red-haired elven woman with a scar on her right cheek passed through a remote town in western Ferelden last week. She was asking questions about Darkspawn activity and was last seen heading into the mountains. Should we pursue?_

That letter hovered at the back of Leliana's mind when the Inquisitor finally made her return to Skyhold. But Leliana knew she could not ask the Inquisitor to authorize a search on such scant information, especially when they had so many other concerns to attend. It was enough to know that Naia probably lived.

 _I must not be distracted from my duty. Not again._

There were other matters to discuss with the Inquisitor, though, and so Leliana sent one of her young agents to ask Cecily to visit her tower when she could. Ten minutes later, the Herald-still covered with dust from the road-appeared in front of her. "You wanted to see me?"

Leliana nodded and began filling her in on the latest movements in Orlais and Hawke's journey to the Anderfels. She felt as if she were barely listening to herself, as if someone else were delivering this report.

Cecily was staring at her. Leliana belatedly realized that she had stopped talking. "That is all, I suppose," she finished.

The Inquisitor nodded. "Thank you, Leliana. That was … informative."

She had barely turned away when a question burst out of Leliana's mouth, almost of its own accord. "What was she like?" the spymaster asked, her voice just above a whisper. "Divine Justinia, or her soul, or the spirit that took her form. I know it isn't clear, but ..."

Cecily nodded a bit, as if she'd expected the question. "Solas said it was a spirit who admired Justinia, who took on her form because it was fascinated with her. I asked her if that was right. The apparition said I could believe that if it comforted me." She shook her head. "The Fade is a strange place. I wish I had a better answer for you."

The Inquisitor paused a moment. "But she asked me to tell you something—I didn't remember it, until just this moment. She said, 'I'm sorry. I failed you, too.'"

"Oh," was all Leliana could think to say. _Perhaps it was not truly the Divine. How could Justinia think that she failed me?_

"Thank you," she continued, after an awkward pause. "I should not trespass further on your time."

"It's not a trespass, Leliana," Cecily said.

The warmth in her tone drew a small smile from the former bard. _She is a kind woman. I should remember that._ It was too easy, sometimes, to mistake the mage's shyness for indifference.

"Inquisitor? Do you believe?" The question was out of Leliana's mouth before she'd really thought about whether to ask it.

Cecily crossed her arms and rocked back on her heels, clearly surprised. "In the Maker? Or in the things people say about me?" she asked carefully.

"Either," Leliana replied.

The Inquisitor looked down at the floor, thinking. "When I was a girl we went to the Chantry every week, said prayers, read the Chant as part of our education," she began slowly. "But it was a rather abstract belief in the Maker. We said our prayers because we owed them to Him and his Bride, not because we thought He would ever touch us directly. It would never have occurred to me that the Maker might call me to do anything specific in the here and now. Then I went to the Circle. The more I learned about the Fade and about magic, the less compelling the Chantry's teachings seemed. After a few years there I wasn't a very good Andrastean anymore."

Another pause. "Truthfully? I don't know what I believe now, Leliana. About the Maker or about myself. I _think_ I'm just a person who happened to interrupt Corypheus at a crucial moment. But that's not the same thing, is it?" She sighed. "I'm sorry. I am a poor theologian, I'm afraid."

"It is not entirely a fair question," Leliana admitted. "In a way, I envy your doubt. During the Blight, I thought the Maker had chosen me to fight by the Hero of Ferelden's side. We crossed paths in the most unlikely way, and with her, I saw the Ashes of Andraste with my own eyes. I felt such certainty about my purpose!"

"But not anymore?" The Inquisitor asked, her voice free of judgment. "The Divine's death was difficult for you, I know. I can't imagine that what we saw in the Fade helped."

Leliana shook her head. "I believe the Maker stood with the Divine as she saved your life. What I don't know is whether He still calls me, whether I aid His plan or whether I have fallen from His gaze."

She turned to look out the tower window, suddenly unable to look at the Herald. "I had agents in the field, agents I pulled back after some of our people went missing. Haven might have been saved, had I done my duty and left them to do their work."

"Or perhaps they would be dead and Haven would still be lost," Cecily argued. "You did the right thing, Leliana. Our people face danger, true, but they are never expendable."

It was the same thing Naia would have said.

"Inquisitor, I have a favor to ask," the spymaster said abruptly, turning to face her. "It is for the Inquisition, in a way, but it is also personal."

Cecily nodded. "Ask, please."

"I had thought I might find the Hero of Ferelden at Adamant. Feared it, more like. She was not there. I have come across a report that may have news of her whereabouts. I would like to use the Inquisition's resources to look for her. It will not be an easy task, but she could know something that might aid us in our fight against Corypheus. And ... I would like to know that she is all right."

Cecily's response was immediate. "Of course. Whatever you need."


	14. Chapter 14

The Iron Bull was used to people underestimating his usefulness as a spy. His utility lay with his very obviousness. Leave the sneaking and the opening of letters and the listening in dark corners to other, smaller people. He'd act the genial mercenary, let others underestimate his intelligence, occasionally ply people with alcohol, and wait for them to share things they shouldn't. They usually did.

Of course, some missions benefitted from a more direct approach.

"So tell me, Commander," he said, one night over dinner in the Inquisition's mess. "Do Templars take vows of celibacy, like your Chantry brothers?"

Cullen dropped his fork. "Excuse me?"

Next to him, Dorian suppressed a laugh.

The Iron Bull repeated the question. Cullen blinked. "I can't imagine why ... I mean, why would you ... _Why_?"

Bull shrugged. "I've never talked much to Templars before. Just curious."

Cullen struggled for a moment, but appeared to decide that answering would be the fastest way to get him out of this conversation. "A few do, to show their devotion to the Order. Most do not. A few even marry, although there are rules about it, and you must get permission from the Order."

"And how devoted were you?"

The Commander—a man who barely reacted when flaming arrows were shot at his head—turned bright pink. "I did not take any vows about, er, physical temptations," he said stiffly. "Maker's breath, can we speak of something else? Anything else?"

Dorian was now shaking with the effort of holding back his laughter. "Certainly, Commander," he managed. "Fine weather we've been having at Skyhold, isn't it?"

Cullen left soon after that, making some excuse about seeing a messenger. As soon as he was out of earshot, Dorian turned to The Iron Bull with one eyebrow raised. "You nearly gave that poor man a stroke. Not that it wasn't amusing, but why did you ask him that?"

"Curiosity. Thought it might explain a few things," the mercenary replied, deliberately vague.

"He's not interested in men, I'm afraid," Dorian said. "In fact, I rather suspect he has his eye on Cecily."

The Iron Bull straightened in his seat. "You noticed it too, huh?"

"You sound surprised," the mage said dryly.

"Figured you were too busy waxing that little mustache to care what these southern barbarians got up to," the Qunari rumbled.

"Just because we're living in primitive conditions doesn't mean I can't look presentable. But I doubt I'll be able to explain that to a man who can't be bothered to put on a shirt." Dorian took another bite.

"Maybe you can explain something else to me, then," The Iron Bull said, gesturing with his fork, well aware of how comically tiny it looked in his hand. "The Inquisitor and the Commander. She wants him. He wants her. Apparently he hasn't taken any celibacy vows. So what's stopping them?"

"Any number of tedious things," Dorian said carelessly. "He's obsessive about the Inquisition, she's barely in Skyhold one week out of four, they both take this sort of thing terribly seriously—mostly that last one. It's rather sweet, really. Infuriating to watch, but sweet."

"Do all bas make this so damned difficult?"

"Certainly not," Dorian replied. "I know I don't."

The Iron Bull took another bite of his dinner to hide his smile. That was a funny thing about intelligence-gathering. Sometimes you came across a useful bit of information that you hadn't even been looking for.

* * *

Cecily's stay in Skyhold was short-lived. The attempt on the Empress's life would almost certainly take place at a grand masquerade she planned to hold in six weeks' time—and the Inquisition did not yet have enough influence in Orlais to land Cecily on the guest list. That would have to change.

 _I wonder how many rifts sealed will merit an invitation to the Empress's ball?_

The answer, apparently, was twelve. Four weeks later, a raven from Leliana arrived in Emprise de Lyon to tell them that the Empress's rival Gaspard had issued an invitation to the Herald and the Inquisition. A note from Vivienne followed.

 _Darling, do return as soon as you can. One does not acquire suitable clothing for such an event overnight._

Acquiring suitable clothing for such an event took well over a week, as it turned out. Vivienne had imported both a seamstress and an entire shop's worth of cloth to Skyhold. The Court Enchanter and the dressmaker had apparently discussed Cecily's coloring, figure, and general appearance at length by the time she got there. Cecily dreaded the prospect of trying to move around in an Orlesian court dress, so she was deeply relieved to see the sketches. They had planned a high-necked, tailored jacket with pearl buttons down the front, plus a soft divided skirt that would conceal a sensible pair of shoes. The jacket would be ice-blue and the skirt, white.

"It's perfect," she said honestly, when Vivienne asked her opinion. "The jacket is lovely, but faintly military, and the white is a Chantry color, so it fits the image of the Inquisition. And I think it will look well on me. It allows me to play their game without appearing as if I'm attempting to do so. Plus, I can fight in it if I have to."

"Very good, darling. I'm glad you don't disdain this sort of thing. You should hear the Commander carrying on about the jacket we're fitting him for. As if the man could expect to wear armor everywhere," Vivienne sniffed. "Now. Let's see what we can do about your hair."

* * *

Given a choice between leading forces into battle and attending an Orlesian ball, Cullen would have chosen the ball-but only because it was less likely to get the Inquisition's soldiers killed. This ball didn't even have that guarantee. Cassandra had promised to make excuses for him should the lyrium withdrawal strike at the Winter Palace, but of course, the attacks only came when it was _in_ convenient.

Not more than an hour into the evening, Cullen found himself surrounded by Orlesian women, all of whom seemed to be asking him personal questions about his position with the Inquisition, his parents, his grandparents, and whether he could expect any inheritance. He was rather certain that one of them had pinched him, in an extremely inappropriate location.

He was trying to think of a way to tell them not to do that when a Marcher accent cut through the soft Orlesian chatter. "Commander! May I steal a moment of your time?"

Cecily had never looked more beautiful to Cullen, and it had nothing to do with the gown Vivienne had chosen for her, or the elaborate braids that coiled around the back of her head, or the silvery lace mask over her eyes. "Of course, Inquisitor. My apologies, er, ladies," he said, trying not to run as he moved to the Inquisitor's side.

Cecily slid a hand into the crook of his elbow and tilted her head towards a nearby balcony. "You looked in need of an escape?" she murmured.

"Maker, yes," Cullen breathed, moving towards the doorway. "I see you do not confine your rescue efforts to trapped villagers."

"I do like to help," she said lightly. "You don't enjoy the attention?"

"No," he admitted as they stepped out onto the balcony. "I feel like a bull at a livestock auction. I was expecting to be ignored, and frankly would have preferred it."

"My sister Evie would sympathize," Cecily said, pulling her hand away. "My parents are still throwing suitors at her. But you'll be safe for a few minutes out here, I think."

Cullen rested his elbows on the balcony and breathed the Halamshiral air as deeply as he could. It was, he had to admit, a beautiful city. "What about you? Has anyone been attempting to learn your lineage?" he asked, only half jokingly.

"They don't seem to know quite what to do with the 'victorious destroyer of the mage rebellion.'" Cecily rolled her eyes. "If they were going to make up tales, I wish they'd asked Varric to invent one. His would actually have been interesting."

"Well. If you ever require rescue from Orlesian courtiers, I would be happy to return the favor," Cullen said, giving her a little half bow.

She smiled, her eyes bright behind the mask. "You know, we never did get to dance, that night at Haven. Would you care to try it tonight? It might keep the other ladies at bay."

"I'm afraid I wouldn't know where to begin with tonight's sort of dances," Cullen said apologetically. "Templars are not invited to many balls."

"Neither are mages. Well, sometimes as entertainment," Cecily said. "But I took lessons in court dancing before I went to the Circle. I tried to teach my friends Kallian and Aidan the steps, once. Kalli lasted ten minutes and then insisted we switch to alienage wedding dances. She was right, they were much easier, and more fun."

Cullen smiled. "Do you think you remember the steps now? To the formal dances, I mean."

"Oh yes. Vivienne made certain of that," she answered wryly. "This past week has been a nonstop whirlwind of dress fittings and 'one-two-three, one-two-three, no, not that foot, darling.'" Her imitation of Vivienne's voice was scarily accurate. "But if it means stopping Corypheus I will use every weapon at my disposal. Including masks and ribbons and Orlesian court dances."

"The Inquisition thanks you for your dedication," he teased.

"Someone ought," she groused, her tone playful. "I'd best continue the evening's work. But, if your adoring followers become too much for you to handle, there's a nice little alcove down that hallway that might provide temporary shelter."

"My thanks," Cullen said sincerely.

He watched her go for a moment—and then his eyes locked on Dorian, who, he now realized, had been standing just beyond the doorway for most of their conversation.

"Commander, you are utterly hopeless," the mage said, glowering at him over a goblet of red wine as he moved onto the balcony. "I've half a mind to tell that gaggle of Orlesian title-hunters that you're the Teryn of Highever's cousin and heir. It would be a fitting punishment."

"For what?" Cullen growled.

"A woman you've been mooning over just asked you to dance, and you said _no_."

"You haven't seen me dance," Cullen retorted. "Saying 'no' was my only possible course of action if I didn't want to frighten her away permanently."

Dorian's face lit up. "So you admit it, then!"

Cullen gritted his teeth and cursed. Silently. "I am not having this conversation with you here. Maker knows who might be listening."

"Oh yes, the scandal," Dorian said. "An unattached man is contemplating the notion of possibly, one day, _maybe_ flirting with a similarly unattached woman! Imagine if anyone knew. You couldn't show your face in Orlais ever again."

"If I thought _that_ were true I'd announce it to the ballroom," Cullen grumbled. "Now then. I believe we have an assassin to spot?"


	15. Chapter 15

The withdrawal attack the morning after the Empress's ball was not the worst so far—that honor still belonged to the nightmare at Adamant.

But it was, by far, the longest. Cullen's first episode, back when he had first ceased the lyrium use, had barely lasted an hour. This time, he was in pain for well over a day. Fortunately there was little he needed to do except nod in agreement while the Inquisition packed for the return to Skyhold, but even so, this was not an encouraging sign.

 _They're getting worse. I have to tell her._

But, Maker help him … he _couldn't_.

It wasn't just that his attraction to the Inquisitor had blossomed into full-blown mooning (as Dorian so politely called it). It was the idea of adding yet another burden to the very long list of burdens that Cecily Trevelyan was carrying.

 _Pardon me, Inquisitor. I need to tell you about my lyrium addiction, and how I've chosen this exact moment to try and break it. I know you're trying to save the world, and there's a Darkspawn magister out to kill you, and next week we'll probably send you to an even worse corner of Thedas to fight even more demons, but I thought you might enjoy having something else to worry about. Aren't you glad that everyone trusted me with the Inquisition's forces?_

The attack had finally subsided by the time they reached Skyhold, but Cullen still didn't feel quite like himself. For distraction, he sought out Dorian and asked if he'd be interested in a game of chess.

He braced himself for more teasing—not that he hadn't asked for it, with his ridiculous fumbling over the Inquisitor—but once again, the Tevinter mage showed himself to be more observant than most gave him credit for. Dorian's eyes scanned Cullen's face; he seemed to sense that Cullen was not entirely well.

So all he said was, "You think you can do better than a draw, Commander?"

"I would like the opportunity to try, at least," Cullen replied.

* * *

"… and so he flung her skyward, and she did this ridiculous _flip_ and landed flat on her backside. And then fired her arrow anyway! She shot a hole right through my tent," Dorian groaned. "In short, do not get Sera and The Iron Bull drunk at the same time. They come up with the _worst_ ideas and then insist on trying them out right there in the camp."

Cullen laughed and moved his archmage. "I don't know. I think I might like to see that. It could be an impressive battle maneuver, if it worked."

"Please believe me when I tell you that it _doesn't_ work," Dorian said. He looked at the board and then met Cullen's eyes with a smirk. "Ready to concede?"

Cullen arched his eyebrow. "Gloat all you like. I have this one."

"Are you _sassing_ me, Commander? I didn't know you had it in you." Dorian moved his knight to capture Cullen's archmage—exactly the play Cullen had hoped he would make.

"Are you two playing nice?"

Cullen half leapt out of his chair at the sound of the Inquisitor's voice. Cecily had snuck up on them so quietly he hadn't heard her approach.

She smiled and waved him down. "Please, don't let me interrupt." Her eyes fell to the board; Cullen could see her puzzling out the next move. Her long hair was loose today and fell in a curtain across her cheek. He tried not to wonder what it would feel like to run his fingers through it.

"You're not interrupting. The Commander is just trying to escape his fate," Dorian said. "You need to come to terms with my inevitable victory, Cullen. You'll feel much better."

Cullen moved his remaining tower. "Really?" he asked, grinning with satisfaction. "Because I just won. And I feel fine!"

The shock on Dorian's face was almost comical. He looked at the board for a long moment, then shook his head ruefully. "Don't get smug. There'll be no living with you," he said. "I demand a rematch—later, after I salvage my wounded pride."

Cecily laughed. "Commander, you'll have to give me lessons. You've just accomplished something I still can't manage—beating Dorian at chess."

Dorian stood to go, and Cullen bit back a yelp of surprise. The mage had stepped on his foot. He opened his mouth to say something—but then Dorian caught his gaze and tilted his head slightly towards Cecily, his eyes wide with meaning.

 _I will never live this down if I don't ask,_ Cullen realized.

"Would you care for a game, Inquisitor?" he said, as Dorian quietly slipped away.

She crossed her arms and smiled. "I would indeed. Prepare the board, Commander."

* * *

Cecily's style of play was slightly different from Dorian's. Like most new players she was cautious, prone to defensive moves even when sacrificing pieces might have gained her an advantage, but she had a talent for seeing the entire board and for anticipating his next move. With more practice, Cullen rather thought she could rival Mia.

For once, they did not find themselves discussing the Inquisition. They talked about his family in South Reach, how he hadn't seen them in years; she told him about Evie's latest letter from Ostwick, which contained several more sketches of young men she did not intend to marry no matter how much Bann and Lady Trevelyan liked them.

"Poor Evie," she said. "With Edmund happily wed now, there's no one else for them to focus their energies on. My parents can be rather single-minded. Their parents introduced them and it was apparently love at first sight. They're determined to do the same for their children."

"My sister Mia is like that. If she thinks something's for your own good, Maker help you if you try to thwart it." Cullen laughed. "One year, she decided that it would be healthful for all of us to wear nightcaps to bed in the winter. I woke up in the middle of the night because she was trying to put one on my head."

Cecily giggled, a much more carefree sound than he was used to hearing from her. He smiled and met her eyes, feeling utterly content.

"I think this is the longest we've ever gone without mentioning the Inquisition," she said cheerfully. "We should do this more often."

"I'd like that," Cullen admitted.

And suddenly, he found himself saying, "Cecily, there's something I ought to tell you—something you should know, as the Inquisitor."

She dropped her hand from the board and sat back in her chair. "This sounds serious."

Part of Cullen wanted to take the words back, but if he couldn't tell her now, he never would. "You know that Templars owe their abilities to lyrium, I'm sure," he said. "We've secured a reliable supply for the Templars in the Inquisition, but I … no longer take it."

Cecily's mouth rounded in a silent 'oh.' "Why did you stop?"

"After what happened in Kirkwall, I couldn't … I did not want to be bound to the Order, or that life, any longer." That, at least, he thought she would understand.

"I've heard that stopping lyrium use is dangerous," she said tentatively.

"It can be," Cullen admitted. "Those cut off suffer. Some go mad. Others die."

Maker, he hadn't meant this to sound so grim.

"It's been months now, and I am … all right," he continued hurriedly. "But I don't want you to think I would put the Inquisition at risk. I've asked Cassandra to watch me, to tell me if I need to be relieved of my duties."

She looked at him for a moment, her brows drawn together in concern. "Are you in pain?" she asked, her voice soft, worried.

"I can endure it."

Cullen swallowed and looked back down at the board. He was glad, and relieved, that she knew—but he wished he hadn't ruined a perfectly nice afternoon by placing his burdens on her.

Silence fell for a moment. Finally, she spoke. "So is that going to be your excuse when I win this game?" she asked slyly.

He looked back up at her and chuckled. "I see Dorian's passed on his penchant for groundless boasting."

"Groundless? Well, let's find out, Commander. I may surprise you."

* * *

Cecily forced herself to be cheerful and friendly through the rest of the game. But as soon as she returned to her chambers that afternoon, she sunk down on the edge of her bed, dropped her head in her hands, and tightened her fingers in her hair until her scalp throbbed.

 _You selfish, bloody idiot._ While she'd been fantasizing about him and having ridiculous conversations about people being naked in other peoples' beds, Cullen had been trying to stop using lyrium.

 _I should have known there was something wrong._ But her adolescent infatuation had blinded her to the fact that her Commander—no, _the Inquisition's_ Commander—was going through lyrium withdrawal.

 _"I can endure it."_

 _Which means "yes, and it's agonizing."_

 _Cullen. Please be all right._


	16. Chapter 16

**A camp outside Denerim, 9:30 Dragon**

Leliana sat as close to the fire as she dared, but still felt strangely cold. She pulled her knees into her chest and rested her chin on them, shaking a bit, trying to come to terms with what had happened today.

 _Marjolaine is dead by my hand. And all I feel is relief._

The others had gone to sleep, save for Sten, who had taken the first watch. If the Qunari noticed her, or cared that she was there, he said nothing; he just continued his steady pacing around the camp.

But after a while, Leliana heard a tent flap rustling. Naia emerged, her hair loose, wearing her tunic and a pair of leather leggings.

"You're still awake," she said softly. "Are you all right?"

Leliana shrugged. "It's nothing. I'm fine. I'm just thinking."

"You don't _look_ fine," the Warden said bluntly, sitting down next to her. "What are you thinking about?"

Leliana drew a pattern in the dirt with her forefinger. "I was in Lothering for years, and Marjolaine still thought I was plotting against her!" she burst out. "I loved her once, but she only loved me when she could use and control me. Now that she can't, she wanted me dead."

Naia nodded. "She was dangerous, Leliana. We did the right thing. You would never have been safe if we hadn't."

Leliana wrapped her arms more tightly around her legs. "Maybe. But I could have spared her, and I didn't. W-what if she was right? What if we are the same?"

It was as if someone had pulled a cork out of a bottle and upended it; she couldn't stop. "What we're doing, hunting men down, killing them—part of me loves it. It invigorates me, and this scares me. I feel myself slipping. I … I should have just stayed in the Chantry."

"You left to help people. And you have," Naia said. "You're nothing like Marjolaine, Leliana. She couldn't even imagine being _half_ as good a person as you."

The former bard sighed. "What makes you so certain?"

"If your situations had been reversed you would never have let Marjolaine take the fall for you. You would never hurt an innocent person on purpose, even to save yourself." Naia leaned to the side and gently nudged Leliana's shoulder with her own. "And I don't think Marjolaine ever sat around worrying that she wasn't doing good in the world. She only saw her own needs, no one else's. You couldn't be less like that."

Leliana looked over at the elf. Her expression was so kind that for a moment Leliana thought she might cry. "Thank you for listening to me," she said, turning her face back to the fire.

"Any time," Naia said. "Do you want to be alone right now?"

Leliana shook her head, not quite able to speak. Naia rested a comforting hand between the bard's shoulder blades and sat side by side with her until the embers began to fade.

* * *

 **Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon**

Leliana knew it would be weeks—at best—before her people might track down Naia and send word back. The Hero of Ferelden would not recognize the Inquisition's agents; she was therefore likely to avoid them, and she was very good at remaining hidden when she wished. Even so, Leliana found herself anxiously scanning each report, hoping to see a coded mention of her friend.

Her mind was so wrapped up in this hope that when Justinia's letter arrived, she was caught utterly off-guard.

 _Leliana,_

 _I have written this letter to be delivered to you in the event of my death. There is something I wish you to have. It waits for you in the Chantry in Valence, and only you will be able to find it._

 _Maker keep you, my dear, loyal friend._

 _Dorothea_

When Leliana finally processed the note—this last bequest from the woman whose life had most shaped hers—she wished, more keenly than ever, that she knew where Naia was. She could not go alone to Valence. A document like this would have passed through many hands. Justinia had written it in code and signed it with her former name, but even so, someone would have decoded it, would know that the Divine had hidden something important for her Left Hand.

But who could she ask? Josie was no fighter, she could not ask her to go into danger that way. Cassandra? No—what if Justinia had left no similar note for her? And Leliana did not yet know any of the others well enough to share something so personal.

None except Cecily. Leliana still would not have called the Inquisitor a friend, exactly, but the mage already knew much about her relationship with Justinia, and she was discreet; she could be trusted with this.

The spymaster made her request the next day. For a moment she thought Cecily might say this could not be an Inquisition priority, but instead, the Herald nodded thoughtfully and promised that they would attend to it the next time they were in the area.

By some great coincidence, the Inquisitor's next task happened to fall within five miles of Valence.

* * *

"Let her go, Leliana."

Leliana glared at Cecily over her shoulder. "She is our enemy, Inquisitor," she hissed, pressing her left hand more tightly against Natalie's neck and pulling her dagger free with her right.

"It's not necessary," the mage insisted. "Grand Cleric Victoire is one woman. We are the Inquisition. What do we have to fear from her?"

 _I should kill her. She will make me regret it if I don't._ But reluctantly, Leliana released Natalie and stepped back.

Natalie rubbed her throat, looking between the spymaster and the Inquisitor with shock in her face. "I am not afraid to die for my beliefs," she said, a faint waver in her voice.

"That is commendable, I suppose," Cecily said dryly. "But you won't have to do so today. Tell Grand Cleric Victoire that she has a choice to make. She can stand with us or against us, but she cannot hope to stop us. The Inquisition will restore peace."

Natalie looked back at Leliana. The spymaster sheathed her dagger. "The Inquisitor has spoken," she said sharply. "Go, and carry her message." She wanted to be angry with Cecily, and yet, some small part of her flooded with relief that no blood would be spilled today.

Without another word, Natalie ran from the Chantry.

Leliana turned to the alcove they had revealed, and lifted the lid to Justinia's box. It was empty. No puzzle, no gift—just a message carved in the lid.

 _The Left Hand should lay down her burden._

A cold, sick feeling settled into the spymaster's chest.

"Does that mean something to you?" Cecily asked, when Leliana read the message aloud.

Leliana bit her lower lip. "I can guess." _You can do more than guess, can't you, Nightingale?_ "I … I did many things for her, things that had to be kept in the shadows. A thousand lies, a thousand deaths." She closed her eyes, rested her hand on the box, and continued. "Justinia was not the first to see my talent for subterfuge, for … for ruthlessness. It seems that all this time she worried that she was using me, as I had been used before."

The former bard grew angry, now. "But Marjolaine's games were mere trifles. The fate of nations rested on Justinia's shoulders—as they now rest on ours. No one else could have done what I did. She knew that!"

"The things she asked of you were important," Cecily said gently. "But that doesn't mean they were without cost."

Leliana glanced over at the Inquisitor. Cecily continued, her face serious. "I think this is what Justinia meant in the Fade, when she said that she failed you. She asked you to do things only you could—but they were things that tore at you, too. Maybe they even changed you over time."

Leliana laughed bitterly. "You see much, don't you, Inquisitor?"

Cecily's feet shuffled a bit. "Not as much as Justinia saw, I suspect. She was your friend. She would have realized the toll all of this took on you."

"And now I am to simply walk away, to stop doing what is necessary because she no longer lives to see it? Am I a broken tool to be discarded?" Leliana stared at the box, suppressing a sudden urge to fling it to the stone floor, to watch it shatter. She took a shuddering breath. "I do not need to be _saved_."

Cecily's voice was quiet and tentative. "I think she just wanted you to … to be free."

Leliana felt her entire frame sag; she slumped forward, bracing her palms against the altar and dropping her head. "We should leave this place, in case others come," she whispered. Reluctantly, she lifted the box, then slipped past the Inquisitor and walked silently out of the Chantry.

* * *

Cecily and Leliana parted ways in the town; the Herald was off to meet Scout Harding at yet another area where rifts had been spotted, and Leliana needed to return to Skyhold. Leliana was cooler at their parting than she should have been. She appreciated that Cecily had gone with her to Valence—but she feared the consequences of the Inquisitor's decision. She had learned over long years with Justinia that you could not simply let an enemy walk away from an attack, no matter how much you might wish to do so.

 _The Inquisitor stayed my hand, and Natalie will make us pay for it._

But a week later, a letter arrived at Skyhold for Josephine.

 _Greetings, Ambassador Montilyet,_

 _If you have heard my name, it is likely because I have been vocal in expressing my concerns about your Inquisition. But I write to extend a hand of friendship._

 _Natalie, my closest advisor, met your Inquisitor in Valence some days ago. She has persuaded me that the Herald of Andraste is a compassionate woman who seeks peace, and she believes that under her guidance, your Inquisition may do good in Thedas._

 _I still have a number of concerns about the Inquisition's teachings and its relationship to the Chantry. However, if peace is truly the Inquisition's goal, I will support that in any way I am able._

 _May the Maker turn his gaze on you, and on your Herald._

 _Grand Cleric Victoire_

Leliana knew her shock was showing on her face when she finished reading the letter in Josephine's office. "I—I did not expect this," she murmured. _It was not a mistake. Natalie lives, and yet … it is all right. Better than all right._

"But that is marvelous!" Josie said, when Leliana told her the story of the events in Valence. "You showed admirable restraint and achieved an even better result than you'd hoped for. Niceness before knives, haven't I always told you, Leliana?"

"I only showed restraint because the Inquisitor was there to restrain me," Leliana admitted.

"And do you think she was wrong?" the ambassador asked, twisting her pen with feigned nonchalance.

Leliana sighed. "No. In fact, I am certain she was right." _About Natalie, and about Justinia too._ "I will … keep this in mind, for the future."

Josephine's smile was so smug that it would have been intolerable in anyone else. "Then I stand by my judgment. This is a marvelous outcome. Remind me to thank the Inquisitor."

"Perhaps you should let me do that," Leliana said.

And, a few days later, she did.

Cecily visited her office when she returned to Skyhold, ostensibly to see if there were any new developments that she ought to know about. But Leliana suspected she was really there to see how the spymaster was doing.

"Natalie has talked Grand Cleric Victoire into supporting the Inquisition," Leliana began. Unconsciously, she glanced over at Justinia's box, which was currently resting on her desk.

Cecily's eyebrows rose. "That's unexpected. Not unwelcome, but Natalie seemed rather certain that we were out to destroy all that is good and holy in the world."

"Apparently you made an impression on her when you spared her life," Leliana said. She hesitated, then admitted, "If you had not stopped me, I would have killed her, and I would have told you that I didn't have a choice. But there is always a choice."

She met the Inquisitor's gaze. "Mercy is not always weakness. Thank you for reminding me of that."

"What about Justinia's message?" the Inquisitor asked, glancing over at the box. "Does it still trouble you?"

Leliana shook her head. "No. In a way, Valence has been—a rebirth, almost. I am more than what Justinia made me. I am more than her Left Hand, more than a bard, more than a spymaster. And … I do not need to ignore my conscience, or my heart."

She turned her gaze back to the box. "I almost lost myself. I will not do so again."

"I'm very glad you're here, Leliana," Cecily said quietly. "We could not do this without you." After a beat, she offered her hand.

Leliana took it, but instead of shaking it, she clasped it between both of hers—not a gesture between colleagues, but one between friends. "Inquisitor—Cecily. I was about to go to Josie's office. We often trade gossip over dinner. Would you like to join us?"

Cecily smiled, her pleasure obvious. "I would. Very much."


	17. Chapter 17

The attacks were happening more frequently now, coming so close together that the end of one and the beginning of another sometimes felt only minutes apart. Cullen could have coped with that.

What he couldn't cope with were the memories that the attacks had started to bring to the surface. That prison in Kinloch Hold, the demons piercing his skin and eyes and mind, killing his friends in front of him again and again and again and _laughing_ , always laughing, the laughter mixing with his screams and those of his friends.

Cassandra claimed that the intensity of the attacks was due to overwork. "You push yourself too hard, and expect too much," she said when he approached her. "It is normal for the pain to grow worse for a time, but you are doing well with it. Do not give up so easily. You give yourself too little credit."

But Cullen knew the truth. He could not continue like this.

The Inquisition needed a new Commander.

* * *

"Of course, Donnic thinks he's been given a soft patrol as a punishment. So Aveline turns to Hawke and says, 'I can fix this. I'll need three goats and a sheaf of wheat. You'll take them to his mother. It's a dowry tradition.'"

The Iron Bull roared with laughter. "You've got to be shitting me. You're making this up!"

"I swear by the ancestors this is exactly how it happened," Varric chortled. "So _then_ , Hawke invites Donnic out for drinks, with the idea that Aveline will come too and they'll get to talk, but Aveline never shows. At the end of the night Donnic tells Hawke that he's flattered but he's not interested in her—she's just too coy for him."

Cecily was giggling so hard her eyes were watering. "Oh no. Poor Hawke! Why didn't Aveline come?"

"She panicked," Varric said with a shrug. "Put the woman up against ten armed Coterie thugs and she won't bat an eyelash, but drinks with a man she likes—go figure."

"Well, he wasn't being much help either. I'm not certain this man deserves your Guard-Captain," Blackwall said skeptically.

"That can't be the end of it. Please tell me that's not the end of it," Cecily begged. "You said they're married now!"

"Spoilers, Inquisitor!" Varric scolded. "All right. Hawke, with some assistance, comes up with a new plan. Aveline and Donnic will go on patrol, but Hawke will walk the route ahead of them and clear out any criminals who might interrupt their private time. But three hours later, the patrol is over and they haven't discussed anything besides the weather and the best method for smithing swords. So Hawke jumps out and insists that Aveline tell Donnic the truth. When she can't, Isabela loses her patience and tells Donnic to 'take a hint and bend her over a basin.'"

The Iron Bull raised his eyebrow. "Did that work? Because if it worked, I might have some words for our Commander when we get back to Skyhold."

Cecily glared at him. The mercenary pretended not to notice.

"Well, not right away. They both get flustered and go back to Kirkwall separately. Aveline spends the next few hours fretting that Donnic is going to file a complaint, that she's going to lose the Guard's trust. But when she gets back to the barracks, the Guardsman comes in for a meeting with her, and, well, let's just say no complaints were filed. They both walked out of her office looking _very_ happy. And they still are." Varric's voice was full of affection. "So technically, I suppose Isabela's advice didn't _hurt_."

The Iron Bull looked over at Cecily. "Don't you _dare_ ," she hissed under her breath.

" _Someone's_ got to do something about the two of you," he muttered back at her.

As the party rode back to Skyhold, Cecily mentally rehearsed at least a dozen different ways to ask Cullen to play chess again, and planned several dozen ways to discreetly give him the opportunity to tell her how he was feeling, whether his addiction was waning—whether he was in pain.

All useless, as it turned out. Cassandra was waiting for her at the gate to Skyhold. "Inquisitor, I must speak with you."

Somehow, Cecily knew this would be about Cullen.

* * *

When there was no answer to her knock, Cecily pushed open the door to Cullen's office. She was promptly greeted by a flying box, sailing across the room with furious momentum to crash against the wall near the door.

Cullen's entire frame jerked when he saw her. "Inquisitor! Maker's breath! I didn't hear you enter. I … forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive. You weren't aiming at me, and I'm sure the box had it coming," Cecily said tentatively.

She knew damn well which box it was, but she still looked. Sure enough, Cullen's lyrium kit lay half-open at her feet. The box had cracked, but the implements inside were still intact. She quashed the urge to step on them as she entered the room.

Cullen moved as if to greet her, but stumbled in pain. His face was ashen; she could hear his breathing, sharp and harsh and much too fast. "Cullen, sit down. You're not well," she said, as calmly as she could. In truth, her stomach was churning.

He closed his eyes and grimaced. "I never meant for this to interfere," he whispered, turning his face away.

"Of course not." It was an inane thing to say.

Cullen didn't seem to mind; in fact, she wasn't sure he'd heard her. "You asked what happened in Ferelden's circle," he said abruptly, standing straighter, his posture tense. "It was taken over by abominations."

Cecily's mouth dropped open. That certainly put new perspective on Cullen's career as a Templar.

The rest of the story followed, slowly, painfully. The abominations had trapped the Templars in a magical prison and used them as experiments—or perhaps playthings. They had used every cruelty they knew to break the Templars' minds, and one by one, Cullen had watched his friends die.

"And yet I still wanted to serve," he finished bitterly. "So they sent me to Kirkwall, where I obsessed over blood magic, only to have the Circle fall to our own Knight-Commander. Can't you see why I want nothing to do with that life?"

"Maker, Cullen! Of course I can," Cecily said, feeling utterly helpless.

"You should be questioning what I've done!" he groaned, running a hand over his face. "I thought this would be better. Without the lyrium … I thought I'd regain some control over my life. But I feel as if I am in that prison again, and I … How many lives depend on our success?"

He was pacing, taking the same small steps between his desk and his bookshelf, over and over and over again. "I cannot give less to the Inquisition than I gave to the Order!" he hissed. "I should be taking it!"

Suddenly, his fist shot out and crashed into the bookshelf. Cecily jumped, but he didn't seem to notice. "I should be taking it," he repeated.

The broken, defeated sound of Cullen's voice made Cecily's stomach sink. Desperately, she tried to think of something—anything—she could say or do.

"Come with me. I need to show you something," she blurted.

Cullen looked at her, his face pale with agony. "I … what?"

"You can't make this decision now, in this room, while you're in so much pain. Can you walk? Do you think you can handle some stairs, and ladders?" she asked.

Cullen nodded. Cecily took a breath. "Then come with me."

 _Please, Maker, let this help._

* * *

Cullen followed Cecily as she led him out the door of his tower, up several ladders, across a long wall, and towards another tower at the second-tallest corner of Skyhold. Cullen had noticed the tower before; it was the one with half a wall missing.

"Where on earth are we going?" he called, pitching his voice to carry over the wind.

"Up there!" Cecily called back.

"It's practically falling down as we speak!" he yelled.

"It's fine!" she called back. "Trust me. Please?"

Cullen took a breath. "All right. Lead on."

Cecily pulled open the splintering door at the side of the tower and reached for the nearby ladder. Cullen followed her up its rungs—and stopped short when he reached the top.

The crumbled side of the tower looked out onto a spectacular view of the mountains surrounding Skyhold. With the rest of the castle at their backs, it almost felt as if this small room was flying miles above the earth. The only sound was the faint roar of the wind. The air inside the room was cold, but not unpleasantly so.

"It's … lovely," Cullen said. He took a deep breath; the lyrium withdrawal was still stabbing through every vein and nerve in his body, but the air and the quiet, the sense of even a bit of distance from the war room and the soldiers and the papers on his desk—it felt calmer, safer, up here.

"That's quite a climb. You must like heights."

"Actually, I hate them," Cecily admitted, crossing her arms and staring out at the view. "I'm terrified of them, in fact. But back in the Ostwick Circle, I …" she trailed off.

Cullen turned his head to look at her profile. "You what?"

Cecily paused. "I was afraid," she said at last. "I was afraid almost all of the time. I was so scared of demons, and Templars—not that I knew any of you terribly well," she added hastily. "And I got tired of being afraid, so I decided to force myself to do something I thought was scary. I started climbing to the tallest spots in the tower and looking down. It made me feel brave. Just a little. But it helped."

 _How many of the mages in Ferelden, in Kirkwall, felt the same?_ Cullen wondered. The Order spent a great deal of time emphasizing the danger mages posed. Many of them assumed that the mages themselves were willfully blind to those dangers—an utterly false assumption, as he had learned. _What if we had worked with them, been their allies, stood with them against these fears?_

"Are you afraid now?"

"Of course," she said, calmly, as if it were obvious. "You have it right. So many lives are depending on us, on the Inquisition. We have to kill an ancient magister who wants to become a god and actually has a plan that might make that happen. Of course I'm afraid."

She turned away from him and sat on the floor, resting her back against the wall. "So, I started climbing again, and I found this place. I have my chambers, I suppose, but people know they can find me there. This is ... more private, somehow. Secret. And very, very quiet."

Cullen crossed the room and sat next to her—not so close as to touch her, but close enough to hear her voice, even if she spoke quietly. "You are generous to share it," he said.

"You need it too," she said simply. "Do you … do you want to talk about it? The lyrium, I mean."

Cullen breathed through his nose and ran a hand over his face. His throat tightened, and to his immense mortification, hot tears started pricking at the back of his eyes. He gasped and dropped his head, his shoulders shaking as the tears leaked out.

"I'm so ashamed," he whispered, his chest tightening with a sob.

Cecily moved closer to him; he felt her arm go around his shoulders, a gentle, comradely gesture.

"I swore myself to this cause, but I … It was selfish and wrong of me to choose this moment to stop the lyrium. I cannot be the Commander the Inquisition needs, not like this." Another sob followed, and then another; he covered his eyes with his right hand. Cecily's arm tightened around his shoulders.

They stayed that way for a moment as he gathered himself. "Were you taking lyrium at Haven?" she asked, when he'd been quiet for a few breaths.

"No. I stopped when Cassandra asked me to join the Inquisition," he said dully.

"Then I know for a fact that you don't need lyrium to be the Commander the Inquisition needs."

Cullen raised his head and looked over at her. She removed her arm and shifted her legs, bringing herself to sit cross-legged, facing him, their knees almost touching.

"Cullen, you were incredible at Haven." Her eyes were wide and her tone was utterly sincere; the words came rapidly, as though she'd been waiting to say this. "When I saw that army of Templars I knew we didn't have the defenses to stand against them, and for a moment I thought we'd all be slaughtered. By the time I regained my damned senses you had already organized us, already begun to plan. You're the reason there was any Inquisition at all to relocate to Skyhold."

Cullen looked away. The earnestness in her face was almost painful. "That's kind of you to say," he said, not wanting to seem ungrateful for her trust. But how could he accept that much faith in him, when he'd failed so badly?

"I'm not being _kind_ , Commander," Cecily snapped. "I'm being _accurate_."

Cullen forced himself to meet her eyes. There it was again—that icy certainty, that look that had been on her face when she'd announced she would go alone to meet the enemy at Haven.

"If I were being _kind_ I'd tell you what a good job you'd done and then say it was time for you to take some well-earned rest," Cecily continued crisply. "But I don't have the luxury of doing that. Nor do I have the luxury of accepting your resignation, should you insist on trying to give it. The Inquisition needs the Commander we had at Adamant, the one we had at Haven. And that Commander wasn't taking lyrium."

Cullen's breath caught in his throat. "Is that … an order, Inquisitor?"

"It is a statement of fact. No more, no less." She paused; when she spoke again, her voice was softer, gentler. "I won't make this decision for you, Cullen. But you do not need lyrium to be our Commander. And as your friend, I'll go one step further. You deserve to start over. If there were no Inquisition, what would you want?"

"To stop," he admitted. "To never use lyrium again. But if it becomes worse … if I cannot endure it …"

"You _can_ ," she insisted. "If this is truly what you want, I know you can."

And, Maker help him, he believed her.

"All right. I will … endure."

Cecily reached out and took his hand between hers. "Good. And for the Maker's sake, when you need help, tell me. Or Cassandra. Or Dorian, or Varric, or—just tell _someone_. Please. Don't make yourself alone in a castle full of people."

Cullen squeezed her hand, almost as a reflex. "I will. I swear."

She smiled at him—just a slight curve of her mouth, but the warmth of the expression made his heart beat a bit faster. "Then I'll let you have a moment of peace. Come here any time you like. I really do think it helps."

He nodded, afraid to speak—afraid he would say something stupid, something like _I can't stop thinking about you._ He couldn't tell her something like that now, not after breaking down so spectacularly—she'd think it was just one more destructive impulse, like throwing the box or punching the bookshelf.

Inanely, he wondered if he'd broken that shelf.

"Take care of yourself," she said softly, squeezing his hand before releasing it. Then she stood and slipped out of the tower, leaving Cullen alone with the mountains and the cold and the pain.

Cullen leaned his head back against the wall, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.

 _It hurts. Maker, it hurts. But I will endure._

* * *

He did not see Cecily alone again before she left for Orlais, before she headed out to find Samson's supply of red lyrium. They exchanged a nod as she mounted her horse and steered it out of the courtyard, but that was all. He hoped she would not worry about him.

While she was gone, Cullen waited. He waited for the attacks to run together, to become continuous. He waited for the memories of the Ferelden Circle to overwhelm him. He vowed that he would fight, that he would rest when he needed to, that he would visit that quiet, half-wrecked tower when the pain overwhelmed him, but part of him was certain that it would not be enough.

Instead, a day passed without an attack. Then two. Then three, and four. On the fifth day, another came, still filled with memories of Kinloch Hold, but he retreated to the tower and he could see them for what they were: echoes of past torments, painful to remember, but nothing that could destroy him now.

During the worst of the pain, he remembered her voice telling him that if he wanted this, she knew he could endure it. And when the attack subsided, the memory of her smile, and her hand in his, and her worry over his pain, gave him reason to wonder—to hope.

 _I must ask her, or go mad from not knowing._

 _When she comes back, I will tell her that I care for her, and ask if she feels the same for me._

 _I will ask. If I can find the words._


	18. Chapter 18

Cecily was whisked away from Skyhold soon after her conversation with Cullen in the tower—Samson's letters had revealed red Templar activity in Orlais. Fighting these men felt harder, now; Cecily couldn't help but wonder if Cullen might have been among them, had Cassandra not recruited him to the Inquisition.

When she returned to Skyhold two weeks later, she managed to hold out an hour before she sought him out. But he was missing from his office, and that worried her. And so, with nothing else to do, she set out for her tower.

To her surprise, she saw someone else emerging from it as she crossed the battlements. It was the Commander.

She raised her hand in a slight wave as they drew closer. Cullen smiled at her, almost shyly—a little quirk of his mouth, quickly gone, but definitely present. "Inquisitor! You've returned."

"I have. And Samson no longer has his supply," she assured him.

"I had no doubt," he said.

"You look better." Cecily couldn't keep the relief from her voice.

"I am better. Much better, in fact," he said, the smile returning. His eyes were bright and the lines between his eyebrows weren't there, maybe for the first time since Haven.

He turned to face the mountains, resting his hands on the edge of the battlements. "I … when you came to see me … I should not have pushed myself so far that day. I am sorry you saw that."

"I'm just glad you're feeling well again." Cecily stepped next to him and breathed the mountain air as deeply as she could. Warmth spread through her chest. _He is all right._ At that moment, she felt as if she could want for nothing else.

"I'd never told anyone what truly happened to me at Ferelden's Circle," he said, almost as if to himself. "For years, it blinded me. I was angry, and I'm not proud of the man that anger made me."

"What you went through would have broken most people beyond repair," Cecily said gently.

"For a time, I thought I _was_ broken beyond repair," he admitted. "But now I can put some distance between myself and what happened. It's a start."

"A _good_ start," Cecily added. "For what it's worth, I like who you are now."

Cullen shifted uneasily. "Even after … even after what you saw?"

The uncertainty in his voice made Cecily's heart hurt. "Cullen, you have nothing to be sorry or ashamed for. You had a bad day and you leaned on a friend. I was glad to be that friend."

"Thank you. Truly." He gave her a considering look, that shy half-smile returning. "It occurs to me that I never told you how marvelous you were at Haven."

"Are you mad?" Cecily laughed. "I nearly fainted. I had no idea what to do. I assumed everyone could see it on my face."

"For weeks, all I could think about when I saw you was the way you looked in the Chantry hall, when you said that you would stay behind to draw the dragon's attention. I don't think anyone had ever snapped at Cassandra like that. 'That was the plan, not an invitation for opinions,' indeed."

"And then you supported me. You said I might find a way to get out alive," Cecily remembered. She hadn't thought much about those moments before meeting Corypheus, not since coming to Skyhold. "And I did. Or maybe a way found me."

She shivered a bit and crossed her arms, rubbing her hands under her shoulders as if trying to stave off a chill. "I thought I was going to die out there in the snow. I cast spell after spell, trying to keep myself warm, but there was only so much I could do. I thought you were a hallucination at first. When I realized it was really you—you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen." Heat flushed her cheeks when she realized how that sounded. "Maker, what a stupid thing to say. I'm sorry. It seemed better in my head."

"Don't apologize," Cullen said earnestly. "I had the same thought when I realized that figure stumbling through the drifts was you. Of course, I usually think you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Cecily's breath caught. She couldn't seem to make her mouth work; she couldn't get a single word out. Not that she knew what to say.

Cullen's eyes went wide. "Oh, Maker. I didn't mean …"

"No, of course not," Cecily managed, her heart falling.

"To make you uncomfortable," he finished. "But … gah. I've no skill for these things." He shook his head. "I've thought about what I might say, in a moment like this, and still I cannot seem—I still don't know how to put this."

He took a breath and turned to face her. "Cecily. You're the Inquisitor, and we're in the midst of a war, and there are a thousand other, more important things that you have to pay attention to. But I care for you, and if you thought you might care for me in the same way, I … It seems too much to ask, and yet, I want to. Ask, I mean."

Cecily's head was swimming; her heart pounded in her chest, so loud she was sure half of Skyhold could hear it. She reached out and took Cullen's hand. "Would it help if I told you that the answer would be yes?"

Cullen caught her hand and turned it, twining his fingers through hers. "You could do better, you know," he said, half-seriously. "I'm still recovering from lyrium use, I tend to obsess over my work, and I have it on good authority that I can be impossibly stubborn."

"Cassandra said that?" Cecily guessed.

"You've got it in one."

"Well. I'm terrified of heights, overly formal with people I don't know, occasionally imperious, and there's an insane Darkspawn magister trying to kill me because I stole his Veil-ripping anchor." She tilted her chin up and arched her eyebrow at him. "So don't bother trying to scare me off. It won't work."

Cullen laughed. "I could say the same to you. Claim as many flaws as you like. You won't convince me that you're anything short of wonderful."

His smile and his laugh were so warm, and the way he was looking at her—she'd never had anyone look at her like that. She squeezed his hand and stepped closer to him. Cullen bent his head in response, and their lips met in a kiss.

It was a bit awkward, a little unsure, and absolutely perfect.

" _Oi! Cecily!_ Where are you?"

Startled, they sprang apart, as guilty as teenagers caught on a ballroom balcony.

When Cecily realized that Sera's voice had carried up from the courtyard below, that she wasn't nearly as close as she seemed, she began laughing. "I think Sera actually thinks my name is Oi-Cecily. I should talk to her about that."

"Cecily! Come on, you've got to see this! There's a man here who threw goats at us!" Sera yelled. "You're supposed to judge him for it on yer big throne, or something. But _goats_!"

"Did she say someone threw _goats_ at the Inquisition?" Cullen asked, looking intrigued in spite of himself.

"This sounds like it requires my attention," Cecily said ruefully. She looked over at Cullen, wondering if he'd want to take back what had just happened.

Apparently not; he stepped closer to her and brushed his thumb across her cheek. "That was … really nice." His smile was tentative and affectionate and hopeful all at once.

She smiled back at him. "So we'll continue this later, then?"

Cullen leaned in for one more kiss. It was just a brief brush of his mouth against hers, but it made every nerve in her body stand at attention. "Count on it," he promised.


	19. Chapter 19

_Later_ did not come as quickly as Cecily had hoped for. The rest of the day was taken up with a series of judgments and petitions for the Inquisition's aid; she barely had a bite of dinner before collapsing into her bed with her clothes still on. She next saw Cullen at their morning war council meeting. They shared a quick, pleased smile, but then Josephine launched into a list of the things Cecily needed to do that day—including a lunch reception for a group of Orlesian emissaries immediately following their meeting.

"Must I?" Cecily asked, perilously close to whining. "I had rather hoped for a quiet afternoon." She very carefully did _not_ look at Cullen.

"They will all expect to be able to go back to Orlais and say they met the Inquisitor in person," Josephine said firmly. "And the longer you keep them waiting, the more time they will expect you to spend with them when you do meet them."

Cecily squared her shoulders and choked back a sigh. "Very well."

When Josephine turned away and began consulting with Leliana, Cecily turned to Cullen. _I'm sorry,_ she mouthed.

He smiled and shook his head, then scratched something on a report and showed it to her.

 _We'll find time._

* * *

Cecily forced herself to stand up straight and smile as the Orlesian Marquise continued her rant. "And I do not know how you, a Trevelyan, how you can tolerate all of the pretenders in the ranks of the Orlesian courts. The nobility in the Free Marches is not nearly so ancient as ours, of course, but your bloodlines are quite respectable. Some of these so-called lords in Orlais are no more than two generations removed from tradesmen and farmers. It is appalling. Don't you agree?"

"We do meet many people in the Inquisition," Cecily said politely. She raised her goblet to her lips. She'd told Josephine to have the serving staff pour her pear cider instead of the white wine all of the other guests were drinking, but right now she desperately wanted the wine. Or maybe whiskey. Straight whiskey. Or that gut-bursting Qunari stuff The Iron Bull had made her try.

Maybe next time she'd get Bull to come to one of these things. _That_ would be worth seeing.

"Marquise, did you know the Inquisitor is an exquisite singer? I believe she shares your taste in music," Josephine said, apparently sensing how close Cecily was to screaming.

Five minutes later—or maybe five hours, it felt that way to Cecily—the Marquise finally abandoned them. Cecily turned to Josephine with her most pleasant smile. "Dear Ambassador. Please remind me why all of these ghastly people are drinking our best vintage."

"They were sent as emissaries by the Empress. Presumably because they are so intolerable that she cannot have them in her own court," Josephine replied, her own smile perfectly serene.

"Remind me to thank Empress Celene," Cecily said. "Perhaps with an Avaar ambassador. Oh joy, here comes the Comte. I made his acquaintance at the Winter Palace. He was drunk then too."

But before the Comte could reach them, the door at the side of the room burst open. Cullen stepped into the gathering, his face grim. "Inquisitor!"

Cecily's heart stopped. "Commander. Is there a problem?"

Cullen crossed to her side. "I apologize to you and your guests, but I must speak with you immediately," he said, his voice low. "It regards the matter we discussed yesterday."

Yesterday? For the life of her, Cecily couldn't remember discussing a problem with Cullen yesterday. She only remembered … _Oh_.

 _Nicely played, my Commander._

Cecily kept her expression concerned. "I see. My apologies, Ambassador, but this cannot wait."

"Of course, Inquisitor," Josephine said. "Please, honored guests, continue to enjoy the food and wine. Things at the Inquisition sometimes move quickly."

Cecily set her goblet down on a side table, curtsied to the room, and moved quickly towards the door, feeling only a bit guilty at abandoning Josephine. Cullen followed her and pulled the door closed behind them.

When they were at the far end of the hall, Cullen caught her shoulder. Cecily turned to him, smiling, ready to make a joke about her heroic rescuer—but he caught her face between his hands and kissed her so fiercely that her knees actually went weak.

 _I thought that was only a figure of speech._

Eventually Cullen ended the kiss, but he didn't pull away. "Just to be certain—you know there isn't really an emergency, right?" he murmured, his mouth still inches from hers.

"You mean you tricked me into leaving all of those awful people? I'm shocked by your duplicity, Commander," Cecily said. She wrapped her arms around his neck. "And quite grateful. In addition to your _many_ other virtues, you have impeccable timing."

Cullen smiled almost boyishly. "It was selfish of me, I suppose, but I found I wasn't inclined to wait."

For an answer, Cecily leaned forward and kissed him again.

"We shouldn't be doing this in a hallway," he murmured when their lips parted. "Where can we go? The tower?"

For a moment Cecily thought of suggesting her chambers, but that seemed … too much, too fast. "Yes. The tower," she said breathlessly.

* * *

The trip to the tower was slowed a bit by their wish for privacy. Cullen and Cecily waited behind several corners in order to pass through hallways unseen; eventually, they split up, hoping to attract less attention.

Perhaps it was the sneaking, or perhaps just the newness of it all, but when Cecily reached the top of the tower, she found herself unaccountably nervous. She stood close to the crumbled wall and looked out at the mountains, her heartbeat rushing through her as noisily as if she'd been in battle.

Cullen soon joined her; he stepped to her side. "So. Ah. It's … a clear day," he said, crossing his arms. "Lovely view."

For a moment they just looked at each other. Then Cecily let out a soft laugh.

"It's a bit strange, isn't it?" she said. "Yesterday, when we kissed on the battlements—I can't tell you how long I'd wanted to do that! But now it's happened, and we're … courting?" She hoped that was the right word; they hadn't exactly discussed it yet.

"Yes, and it is strange. Wonderful, but strange," he replied earnestly. "I've thought about kissing you for, well, longer than I should admit. And now you're here, and I'm here, and … Maker, I'm not very good at this, am I?" he laughed, rubbing a hand behind his neck.

"I think you're doing all right," Cecily said, smiling. "You did rescue me from that reception. That was quite romantic."

"I'm glad." Cullen tucked a bit of her hair back behind her ear, then let his fingers rest gently against her cheek. "Cecy, if I seem unsure, it's because it's been a long time since I've … well, since I've wanted anyone in my life. But it's not because I'm unsure about _you_. Believe me, I'm not."

Cecily reached up and curled her fingers around his hand. "We're in no rush, you know," she said. "We can take this slowly. I know I'm not going anywhere."

Cullen smiled at her. "It occurs to me that I still owe you a dance," he mused. "We've no music up here, but perhaps that's for the best. I won't be able to lose the rhythm if there isn't one." He bowed and held out his other hand. "Would you do me the honor, my lady?"

She grinned. "I'd be delighted, Commander."

It was only sort of a dance, the two of them taking small steps to an unheard melody. But his hand was warm in hers, and his smile was curving that delicious scar, and Cecily felt utterly happy.

Eventually, Cullen pulled her closer to him—or perhaps she stepped closer, difficult to say—and they kissed, no shyness about it now.

* * *

"Josie, have you noticed that the Commander has been absent from his office rather more often than usual?" Leliana mused, climbing the stairs to her office one morning after their war council meeting.

"I have," Josephine said. "Oddly, our Inquisitor is also more difficult to find of late."

"And their absences seem to coincide! How mysterious." Leliana couldn't help a broad smile; she shook her head fondly. "I am glad for them."

"I suppose I should be angrier about the reception for the Orlesian emissaries—but then, I should have seen right away that Cullen was lying," Josephine laughed. "I must be losing my touch. Do you know …"

The ambassador's voice trailed off as they reached the top floor. A woman was sitting in front of Leliana's desk with her feet propped on the nearby windowsill—a red-haired elf in soft, close-fitting leathers.

The woman locked eyes briefly with Josephine, but her gaze quickly moved to Leliana. She swung her feet down to the floor and stood, moving with a dancer's easy grace. "There you are!" she said. "I was going to send you a letter, but I was having trouble spelling 'Corypheus.'" She flashed Leliana a bright grin. "So I thought I'd better come in person."

The spymaster pressed her fingers to her mouth in shock. The woman tilted her head, a hint of worry in her eyes. "Leliana?"

With a glad little cry, Leliana ran forward and wrapped the elf in a tight, sisterly embrace. "I could _kill_ you for disappearing like that!" she choked. "You are the most infuriating woman in Thedas!"

"Oh good," said the Hero of Ferelden, hugging her back. "You _do_ remember me."


	20. Chapter 20

**A Grey Warden camp in the Free Marches, 9:37 Dragon**

Naia stood up from the little desk and slammed its lid down as hard as she could. For a minute she thought it might collapse, but the camp supplier had learned his lesson about Warden strength. The desk wobbled, but held. She leapt to steady a small bottle of perfume, the one Zev had given her on the ship from Antiva City. It meant a lot to her that Zevran had paused to pick out a gift for her before they killed that Guildmaster.

Thinking about Zev calmed her a bit. She was able to still her fury and focus, breathe through her nose. _Think, damn it. Think._ But this wasn't a problem she could untangle just by thinking at it. _Andraste's flaming knickers. What am I going to do?_

"I see I have come at a bad time."

Years of training kept Naia from shrieking and leaping out of her skin. Instead, she only jumped a little as she turned to face the speaker.

A red-haired woman dressed all in black was standing in the door to Naia's tent. Duncan the mabari was sitting at her side, panting happily as the visitor scratched his ears. The woman smiled. "Duncan has said hello. Won't you?"

"Leliana!" Her bad mood suddenly forgotten, Naia stepped forward to embrace her friend.

Leliana returned the hug, but scolded, "You should not be letting people sneak up on you."

Naia stepped back and pushed her hand through her hair, ruining her braid in the process. "I know. I don't make a habit of it, I swear. It hasn't been a good day."

Leliana's mouth thinned. "I can see that. What is it that troubles you so?"

Naia shook her head. "You first. What brings you here?"

"I am headed to Kirkwall on a matter of some secrecy. The Divine is worried that—well, no matter."

"Let me guess. Mages and Templars?" Naia asked, arching an eyebrow.

Normally Leliana would have applauded a correct deduction. This one made her face fall. "Things at the Circle must truly be bad, if you have heard about it all the way out here."

The worry on Leliana's face shook Naia. Belatedly, she remembered that her friend worked for the Chantry now. She tried to backstep. "Well, one of our Wardens—a Ferelden, actually—he used to live in Kirkwall. His friends send him letters. It sounds as if things have been difficult since the old Viscount died." She frowned. "I hope you plan to do something about this Knight-Commander Meredith. She sounds half mad. She's even been bullying Alistair about Ferelden giving harbor to mages."

Leliana dropped her gaze and made a little cooing noise at the dog. "Well, those are problems for another day, no? I heard there were Grey Wardens in the area and took a chance that you might be with them. And, here you are." She raised her head and met Naia's eyes. "But not in the spirits I would have wished for you."

Leliana's head was tilted in concern, an expression Naia knew well. But … there was something just a bit calculated in the gesture, now. Not for the first time, Naia wondered just what her friend had been up to since Alistair's coronation. She knew Leliana had returned to the chantry when her friend had become Divine Justinia V, and that she bore the somewhat mysterious title of "Left Hand of the Divine." But not even Zev could untangle exactly what it was that Leliana did, and whenever she asked, Leliana would make vague comments about beckoning and reaching.

"And so? What troubles you?"

For a moment, Naia considered saying nothing. She hated herself for that hesitation—if she could not trust Leliana, who had combed her hair for Alistair's coronation and held her while she wept for Lady Isolde, what was wrong with the world?

She took the seat behind her desk and gestured to the chair opposite it, the comfortable one she kept for visitors. Duncan trotted over and put his head in Naia's lap. Naia stroked his back fondly. "I'm sure you've heard the rumor that the Blight in Fereldan wasn't a true blight."

Leliana frowned. "Indeed. It is not a rumor that anyone dares mention in my presence. I am surprised that such nonsense troubles you."

Naia chuckled mirthlessly. "It didn't, until I heard it whispered among the Wardens in the Free Marches. Then a few people felt confident enough to say it to my face. So Zev decided to figure out where it was coming from." She tightened her fist, the one that wasn't occupied petting the dog. "I had a letter from Zev today. I decoded it just now. Do you know who started the rumor, Leliana? The bloody Grey Warden command in Orlais, that's who."

Leliana's mouth dropped open in genuine shock. "That cannot be. Naia, you cannot trace a rumor with certainty. I am certain Zevran told you that."

"Maybe they didn't invent the rumor," Naia conceded. "But they have been spreading it. Carefully, never in letters, only in words. And the worst part? It sounds _sensible_ , Leliana. Our Blight never spread beyond the borders of Fereldan, and more importantly, I'm not dead. How could it have been an Archdemon, then? How could this have been a real Blight?" She rubbed her left hand over her eyes. Duncan made a low growl in his throat, sensing his mistress's unhappiness.

"But why? Why would the Wardens spread such lies?" Once, Leliana's eyes would have been wide with indignation and some shock. Now, she looked furious, but grim and not entirely surprised.

"The Orlesian Wardens," Naia corrected sourly. "Who think I'm 'a vulgar little elf and an embarrassment to the Order,' according to one Orlesian Warden-Commander." _That_ , they'd been willing to put in a letter. Zev had found it in the office of a high-ranking Orlesian military official. Then he'd made a side trip to fill the Commander's office with embarrassing pornographic books. He'd also made arrangements with various merchants in Val Royeaux to keep the pornography shipments coming. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for Naia.

Leliana's eyes narrowed. "Not even Wardens are immune from professional jealousy, I suppose."

Naia sighed. "That's the flattering way to put it. But it turns out I broke nearly every rule for good Wardening on my way to the Archdemon. Meddled in politics, found allies, made friends and enemies, stuck up for elves. The Grey Wardens are supposed to be neutral, as Weisshaupt never tires of telling me. Even though everyone knows the First Warden is neck-deep in Anderfels politics." She was quiet for a moment. "They're happy enough to have a Hero of Ferelden, they just wish I was properly dead like I'm supposed to be. Maybe Weisshaupt wants me out of the way, disgraced and gone."

"I do not think so. If they thought you were so damaging, the Warden leadership would simply have you killed," Leliana said practically. "You would die and they could mold your image however they liked. Only rivals would seek to discredit you rather than see you dead."

"That's … reassuring," Naia said, suddenly casting her eyes around the room for any assassins. Well, besides the one sitting in the chair next to hers.

"I mean you may yet have friends at Weisshaupt," Leliana said. "Or, at least, that Weisshaupt is probably _not_ the source of your troubles."

"I suppose not. But they're not doing anything to prevent it, either. In fact, I think they're moving to isolate me. They drove off my friend Anders by partnering him with a sadistic ex-Templar. Now they've summoned me and Nathaniel Howe from Amaranthine for a 'summit on post-Blight strategies,' and we'd barely been here a minute before they decided to send Nathaniel off on some ghastly expedition to the deepest Deep Roads."

Fairness prompted her to add, "They've promised him a cut of any treasure they find, and Nathaniel wants to go—he wants the money for his sister. Still, the fact that they want him specifically—it worries me. He practically runs Amaranthine now." Naia had quickly learned that she had no gift for politics or account books, and Nathaniel had been only too glad to see to it that his family's old estate ran smoothly. "He leaves in a week, right after the meeting starts."

"I do find this suspicious, yes." Leliana looked genuinely troubled.

"The worst part? The rumor hurts Alistair too." Naia bared her teeth. "That may be what they're after, in the end. If I'm not the Hero of Ferelden, then Alistair's just a false King installed with the help of a fraud." She struck her hand against the arm of the chair. "Damn it! If he's deposed there won't be anywhere he'll be safe. They'll put Anora back on the throne and she'll have him killed to eliminate the competition."

Leliana leaned over and covered Naia's hand with hers. "There are many steps between a few whispered rumors and Alistair going into hiding, Naia. Do not get ahead of yourself."

Naia stood and began to pace the tent restlessly. "I don't know how to fight this, Leliana. The Archdemon had a head and a body. I could kill it. I can't kill a rumor. Well, Zev insists you can kill a rumor too if you kill all the right people." She smiled fondly. "But I think getting rid of this one would require an impractical amount of killing."

"I will do what I can to counter this slander," Leliana assured her. "Perhaps it is time for some rumors to be started about your Orlesian Warden-Commander, no?"

Naia grinned in delight. "I may be able to help with that. I hear he has a shockingly large collection of very obscene pornography."

* * *

 **Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon**

"So. The Inquisition. Did you have to sit around thinking up terrifying names for your new organization, or did you settle on the most intimidating one right away?" Naia asked. The elf was tilted back in her chair, her feet on the windowsill, a goblet of wine in her hand. Leliana reminded herself not to try to match Naia drink for drink; she could not keep up with Warden metabolism.

That memory tickled something a bit at the back of her mind. Something about Blackwall … No matter.

"If we had found you and asked you to be the Inquisitor, as we'd hoped, would you have changed the name?" she joked.

"You were going to ask me to lead this thing?" Naia sat up very straight. "Andraste's ass, Leliana. Were you drunk? I think you must have been drunk. Or maybe you hit your head."

"It was a splendid idea!" Leliana protested. "With the Hero of Ferelden as our leader, who could doubt our intentions or our purpose?"

"I was in charge of Vigil's Keep for six months and people tried to storm our gates with torches and pitchforks. I'm a fighter, Leliana, not a diplomat or an administrator."

"False modesty does not become you, Naia." Leliana shook her head.

"It's not false modesty. I just know what I'm good at," Naia argued. "Give me an enemy and a small team and I'll find a way to get us through. Hand me a ledger or ask me to plan political strategies and I'm average, at best. If it hadn't been for Nathaniel I think Amaranthine would have, I don't know, exploded or something by now."

"I was pleased to learn he survived the trip to the Deep Roads," Leliana said.

"Only thanks to his sister and the Champion of Kirkwall," Naia groaned. "I swear, if he'd gotten himself killed I would have found a way to travel to the Afterlife so I could haul him back out and kick him. Repeatedly."

Leliana laughed. "If anyone could manage that, it would be you."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Then Naia cleared her throat. "You must be wondering where I've been."

"Oh? Have you been gone? I'd hardly noticed," Leliana said dryly.

Naia stuck her tongue out at the former bard. "Glad to hear I wasn't missed. Well, you knew about the trouble I was having with the Wardens. So about two years ago I decided to leave Nathaniel in charge of the Ferelden Wardens to find a cure for the Calling, and for the Taint." She sighed. "Alistair's getting pressure to marry—more pressure than usual. He's hesitating because he knows he'll have trouble fathering a child."

Leliana winced in sympathy. "Indeed. Why shackle himself to a marriage of convenience when its object will still remain out of reach?"

Naia nodded. "But he needs an heir. And so Zev and I set out to find Fiona, the only Warden who's ever been cured of the Taint. But didn't the mage rebellion complicate _that_. Every time we tracked her down she'd pick up and move again, trying to evade the Templars—and we'd heard that she doesn't know much about what happened, in any case." Naia took a sip of wine. "So, long story short, we got desperate and went to find The Architect. He owes me one, after all."

Only Naia would know a talking Darkspawn who owed her a favor. "Did you find him?"

The Warden shook her head. "Not yet. Based on what your people told me I suspect Corypheus may be to blame. If Corypheus can create a false Calling in Wardens, who knows what he can do to Darkspawn. The Architect will have pulled his people as far away from Corypheus as possible. I can't say I blame him. So, Zev and I split up to track our last few leads, and that's when your people found me. I'm hoping Zev might get my message and join us here. He'd like to see you again."

The thought of a visit from the elven assassin made Leliana smile. "Fiona is in Skyhold, you know," she said.

"I'd heard. I'm hoping to speak with her while I'm here." Naia scowled. "I'll try to keep things civil. But I can't believe what she did in Redcliffe, after everything Alistair did for the rebel mages. An alliance with Tevinter? Andraste's flaming sword, who looks at the Magisterium and says 'Yes, these are exactly the kind of allies I want! I am clearly making excellent decisions if blood mages are on my side!'"

Her face tightened. "Well. A lot of people, these days, apparently."

Naia swung her feet down to the floor, set her wine on the table, and looked at Leliana seriously. "Tell me what happened at Adamant. I've heard rumors, but …"

Leliana sighed. She had known this was coming. "It will not be easy to hear," she warned her friend.

Naia closed her eyes and shook her head. "I didn't think it would be."

* * *

"Shit," Naia said eloquently when Leliana had finished the story. She pressed the heels of her hands into her forehead. " _Shit_. Taking myself out of the Warden power struggles seemed like a good idea at the time, and curing the Calling was—is—a good goal. But … I'm sorry, Leliana. I should have been there to stop this." There was real agony in Naia's eyes.

"You could not have known," Leliana said. "And I doubt it was an accident that Corypheus singled out the Orlesian Wardens. He chose the very place where you held the least influence." She dropped her gaze to her hands, saw that she was twisting her fingers. "Truthfully, I am glad you were not there. I feared—at Adamant, I feared I would find your corpse."

Naia reached out and put her hand on top of Leliana's. "I'm sorry I made you worry," she said.

Leliana turned her hand up to squeeze her friend's. "Do not be. I will always worry about you—you do find yourself in dangerous situations with remarkable regularity, after all. But I also have faith that you will come out of them, if anyone can."

"Are you well?" Naia asked softly. "The Divine's death must have been awful for you. I know how close you were."

"It has been difficult," Leliana admitted. She bit her lower lip—a nervous gesture that she could not remember making in years. "As her Left Hand, there were many things that I did that I—that I would not wish you to know about. I … I became a person to be feared. More like Marjolaine than I would have wished. I am trying to find my way back. But it is not always easy to find a balance between doing what is necessary, and doing what is right."

"I know what you mean," Naia sighed. "You know what? I think we may need more wine."


	21. Chapter 21

"The Skyhold wine cellar, eh?"

"It's my only hope of finding a decent bottle in this Southern backwater. I know Josephine keeps better stock hidden down here," Dorian said.

"Uh-huh," The Iron Bull replied. "And you asked me to come with you because …?"

"Because you're the tallest person here, which means you can reach the bottles at the top, which is likely where they've hidden the wine that's actually drinkable." Dorian tried to keep his voice light. _Damn the man. He's actually going to make me say it, isn't he? He's actually expecting_ me _to ask_ him _._

Soft, feminine giggles floated out of the wine cellar as they approached. Dorian paused, wondering if they'd happened upon someone else's private moment.

"Oh! Be careful!" said an Orlesian-accented voice.

"Is that _Sister Leliana_?" Dorian said, delightfully scandalized.

"You said the best bottles were at the top. So I'm getting them," another voice answered.

"They sound clothed," The Iron Bull said, pushing the door open.

Leliana was standing at the bottom of the wine rack, laughing, her hood down around her shoulders and her red hair glinting in the light from the torch on the wall. It took Dorian a moment to recognize her; the merry expression on her face was that different from her usual mysterious smirk. Above her was an elf who had climbed to the top of the rack, her toes perched carefully between the bottles and her fingers curled around the top rung.

"Here, take this," the elf said, handing down a bottle. "It's Orlesian. Good?"

"Just pick something you will enjoy," Leliana said.

"It all tastes the same to me. Sort of … purple," the elf said.

Leliana tipped her head back and sighed. "You are impossible. Yes, this is a very fine … oh!" She jumped when she spotted Dorian and Bull. "Good evening, gentlemen."

"Hello!" said the elf. She pulled a second bottle from the top rack and hopped down, landing lightly on her feet, the bottle cradled in her left hand. The woman was older than she'd first appeared, probably in her mid-thirties. She had red hair that she wore loose over her shoulders and a jagged scar that ran down the right side of her face from her temple to her jaw. Something about that seemed familiar to Dorian.

The elf looked up at The Iron Bull. "Can I ask you something? Are you considered tall, for a Qunari?"

The Iron Bull grinned down at her. "Actually, yeah." Dorian stamped down a flash of irritation when he saw how Bull's eyes skipped up and down the elf's frame.

"I have a friend who's a Qunari. He's quite tall by elf standards, or even shem standards, but you'd almost make him look tiny. He also doesn't have horns. Does that mean anything in the Qun? I've always wondered."

"We usually think it means someone is marked out for a special destiny," Bull said. "Our new Arishok doesn't have them."

"Right!" said the elf. "That's Sten! _Our_ Sten, I mean. I know there are other Stens. And I suppose he's not Sten anymore. I still can't get my head around calling him 'the Arishok,' can you, Leliana?"

The Iron Bull looked over at Leliana. "Aren't you going to introduce us to your friend?"

"Dorian, Iron Bull, this is Naia Tabris—as I suspect you have guessed," Leliana said wryly. "Naia, meet Dorian of house Pavus and The Iron Bull, also known as Hissrad of the Ben-Hassrath. So do not tell him anything you don't want in a Qunari intelligence report."

"Thank you for the warning," Naia said. "It's nice to meet you both." She gave them a little salute with the wine bottle.

"Are both of those for you two? That's quite an evening you have planned," Dorian said.

"Oh, no, they're for me. I'm not sure what Leliana's drinking," the elf said cheerfully.

"She's not entirely joking. Grey Wardens have a terrifying tolerance for alcohol," Leliana said.

"Well then. You'll have to drop by and share a drink with me and my Chargers while you're here," The Iron Bull rumbled. "It's been a long time since anyone could drink us under the table. Come find us in the tavern any time."

Dorian _did not_ clench his teeth.

"I may take you up on that," Naia said. "By the way, since you're here in the wine cellar, Leliana says the good bottles are at the top."

"Good by Southern standards, or _actually_ good?" Dorian asked.

"Import your own wines if ours are not to your taste, Dorian," Leliana said archly. "Good night, gentlemen. Naia and I have some catching up to do."

Dorian managed a slight bow as the two women swept past them and up the stairs.

The Iron Bull watched them go, then looked at him, almost bouncing with excitement. "Do you know who that was? The Hero of Ferelden! Shit, I can't believe it!"

"Quite pretty for a Grey Warden, isn't she?" Dorian asked, hiding most—but not all—of his irritation.

"She is," The Iron Bull agreed. He looked down at Dorian and arched his eyebrow. "You think I'm not paying attention, don't you?"

"Paying attention? To what?" Dorian said, deliberately obtuse.

"To you." The Iron Bull smiled at him, slowly—a very different smile than the one he usually wore. "Don't worry. I am paying you _very_ close attention."

* * *

Cecily knew that it would not be long before all of Skyhold knew that she and Cullen were courting. But for now, it felt like just the two of them knew—a pleasant, warm little secret. She wanted to keep it that way just a little bit longer, and she also knew how much Cullen hated the idea of becoming an object of gossip.

So she made sure to have an excuse to stop by his office that evening—an update from Dagna on her efforts to find a weakness in Samson's armor. As it turned out, she didn't need it; Cullen was alone at his bookshelf when she knocked at his office door.

He smiled at her. "I hoped you'd stop by."

"Do you have some time? I thought we might play chess," Cecily suggested.

"For you? Of course I have time. Give me a moment, I'll retrieve my board from my room."

"You know, I've never thought to ask where your room is," Cecily said with some surprise. _Then again, I wouldn't have asked, because that would have put me one step closer to taking The Iron Bull's advice._

Cullen made a vague gesture skyward. "I put a bed in my loft."

Cecily's mouth dropped open. "You sleep _upstairs_? Cullen, no wonder you're overworked, you literally live in your office!"

Cullen looked startled by the suggestion that this was not a splendid idea. "It's actually worked quite nicely. It has stopped me from falling asleep at my desk. Most nights," he amended when she gave him a questioning look. "Besides, the repairs at Skyhold have gone well, but we welcome more and more visitors every day. We must make use of the space we have."

Cecily decided not to press the point. "If you're sure," she said, trying and failing to keep the skepticism from her voice.

"Why, where would you have me sleep?" Cullen asked, his eyes crinkling in amusement. Then he went a bit pink. "Um."

Cecily felt her own face heat in response. "Well. Chess?" she asked, flustered.

He nodded. "I'll … be right back."

* * *

"Vivienne and Blackwall absolutely hate each other, did you know that?" Cecily asked about halfway through the game.

Cullen frowned. "I don't think I did, in fact. But it doesn't surprise me. I can't think of two people who have less in common. Blackwall is more subtle about it than Sera, but he doesn't think much of the aristocracy, or the Game."

"That's only because he's never had to play it. If he _had,_ he'd outright despise it," Cecily said with a sigh. "I don't think we ever talked about that ball, but I felt as if I spoke in nothing but riddles for the entire evening. It was exhausting."

"You seemed to handle it quite well," Cullen said. In fact, the ease with which she'd played the Game had been slightly disconcerting at the time.

Cecily shrugged. "I missed out on the more advanced training because I was in the Circle, I'm sure, and the Marcher nobility isn't quite as proficient in the Game, but our protocol tutors drilled the basic principles into us young. Hint at everything, reveal nothing, hope the other person slips and shows their hand, and always, always do everything with a polite smile on your face."

Cullen wasn't sure what possessed him to ask this next question, but somehow he found himself asking it anyway. "I have no title outside the Inquisition, you know. I hope that doesn't—I mean, _does_ it bother you?"

Cecily blinked at him. "Why would that bother me?"

"Because your family—I mean, I doubt a farmer's son from Honnleath was the suitor your parents envisioned for you before you went to the Circle." A thought occurred to him. "Your parents … have they ever expressed a wish to find _you_ a husband?"

Cecily's mouth dropped open in obvious horror. "Maker's breath, that never occurred to me. I doubt it occurred to them either. Circle mages can't marry, after all."

"I suspect change will be coming to Thedas on that front," Cullen said. "Not that we need to discuss that right now," he added hurriedly.

She laughed and shook her head. "Cullen, I couldn't care less about whether or not you have a title, inside or outside the Inquisition. And I never will care, whatever the future might hold for us." She bit her lip, then. "Do you care about _my_ family? I know you don't have much patience for nobility either."

Cullen reached out and took her hand. "No. I don't care at all," he said sincerely. "Just … please don't make me attend any more Orlesian balls unless it's absolutely necessary."

"Agreed, so long as you make me the same promise," she said with a grin. "Now, was it your move or mine?"

"I can't remember," Cullen said. He looked over at her, watching the way her mouth curved when she smiled. "I suppose that means we'll have to think of something else to do."

He tugged gently at her hand. With a light laugh, Cecily rose and stepped close to him. His heart pounding, Cullen reached for her and pulled her down to sit in his lap.

"So you forfeit, then?" she asked as he leaned in to kiss her.

"Yes. Absolutely," he murmured.

* * *

It was late in the evening when Naia and Leliana abandoned the rest of their wine and set out on a slightly tipsy tour of Skyhold. Leliana was singing a scandalous ballad about a baker's son when a figure across the courtyard caught Naia's eye—a slim woman in a ragged leather skirt, walking the gardens at Skyhold.

 _No. You've got to be fucking kidding me._

"Um. Leliana?" Naia said, pulling her friend to a halt. "How drunk am I? Because I think I just saw Morrigan."


	22. Chapter 22

Naia chose not to confront Morrigan that night—she definitely wanted to be sober for _that_ conversation. Leliana told her that the sorceress usually spent much of her day in the courtyard, so Naia headed back to the garden first thing the next morning and waited on a bench until her former ally returned.

The expression on Morrigan's face when she saw Naia was extremely satisfying. She looked shocked, and then horrified, then shocked again.

Then her face slid back to her familiar, sardonic mask. "Well, well. The Hero of Ferelden, come to Skyhold! This _is_ a surprise. I had heard you were missing."

"You know how it is. I'm always in the last place you look," Naia said, standing. "Where's the child, Morrigan?"

The apostate went tense. "What do you intend with him?"

 _It's a boy._ "Nothing bad, except to know that he's safe and probably not the next Archdemon," Naia said sarcastically.

"His name is Kieran," Morrigan replied. "He is here at Skyhold, and he is not what you fear. You may meet him, if you like."

"I think I would, thanks," Naia said, taking a bit of pleasure at the way Morrigan's face blanched. "So. Leliana invited _me_. What brings _you_ to Skyhold?"

"It may surprise you, but I am here by invitation as well," Morrigan said, crossing her arms. "Empress Celene sent me to lend my expertise to the Inquisition, and the Inquisitor accepted my help most graciously—much as you did, once."

"Remind me to warn that poor woman what she's in for," Naia said wryly. "What kind of dark ritual are you planning to spring on _her_?"

Morrigan's eyes flickered over Naia's face; her expression was stiff, unreadable. Her next question surprised the Warden. "Why did you refuse me at Redcliffe?"

"The fact that Alistair didn't want to sleep with you is hardly my fault," Naia pointed out. "If you knew you needed him for your ritual you could have been nicer to him."

Morrigan snorted. "Don't pretend this was beyond your influence. Alistair would have jumped off the roof of the Chantry if you told him it was necessary. I had thought … you were my friend. I had thought you would trust me. That you would help me."

"Your _friend_?" Naia asked incredulously. "You claimed to be my friend, certainly, as long as I was fetching you grimoires and killing your mother for you. But the moment I didn't get you what you wanted—when I didn't bully Alistair into bedding you—you swept off and left! The night before we had to fight the Archdemon!"

Morrigan blinked in surprise. "It had not occurred to me that you would be hurt by my leaving. I am sorry." She looked to the side. "I did warn you that I might not always prove worthy of your friendship."

"So you did, I suppose." That had been a strange conversation, even by conversations-with-Morrigan standards.

"I do not think I knew what it meant to _be_ a friend," Morrigan confessed. "Perhaps I still do not. But I went to Zevran that night for your sake as well as mine. You may not believe this, but I am very glad you are alive."

"So is Zev, as it happens," Naia said dryly. "I should tell you that he may be coming to Skyhold."

"Will he … will he want to see Kieran as well?" The idea clearly made Morrigan uncomfortable.

Naia shrugged. "I'll let you work that out with him. And Morrigan? I don't know what you intend with the Inquisition. But I'll give you some advice. Eleven years ago you thought Leliana was just a sweet little Chantry sister. She's not. She also takes this Inquisition thing very seriously. If you're planning anything that might piss her off—ah, I recommend that you don't."

The Witch of the Wild's bright eyes glowed. "Coldly said, but kindly meant, I think. It seems that part of you is yet my friend, Naia Tabris."

"Well, you did save my life," Naia admitted.

"Mother?"

Naia's breath caught in shock. A boy, roughly ten years old, was approaching them. He was dressed much like an Orlesian page, and was looking between the two of them with open curiously.

Morrigan extended her hand and drew him close. "Kieran, this is Naia Tabris, whom most call the Hero of Ferelden. Naia, this is … my son."

"Hello, Kieran," Naia said, since she had no idea what else to say. She studied the boy carefully. There were hints of elf in him—in the delicacy of his features, the large eyes, the slender frame—but they would only have been apparent to someone searching for them. His pale skin, dark hair and full mouth echoed his mother's. Naia supposed that was a blessing.

"Mother said she knew you," Kieran said. "I thought you would be taller. But you do look very brave. Mother said you were brave, and kind, and that you helped her."

Morrigan coughed. "That's enough of that, little man. I think it is time to return to your studies."

Kieran looked at Naia. "Did _your_ mother make _you_ return to your studies all the time?" he asked plaintively.

Naia couldn't help a smile. "In a way. My mother was a fighter, like me. I was lucky to have her to teach me."

"Kieran," Morrigan said, a gentle warning in her tone. The boy sighed and slipped away.

"That was not what I expected," Naia said honestly, as soon as Kieran was safely inside and out of earshot.

Morrigan laughed. "From a child of mine, you mean? I suppose not. But _my_ son will not be raised in a marsh, bereft of human contact. His path will not be easy, but I have tried not to add to his burdens." She looked over at Naia. "He is, in most respects, a perfectly normal boy."

"What does he know?" Naia asked. "About his father, and the night he was, ah, made?"

"He knows nothing," Morrigan admitted. When Naia glared at her, she turned up her hands and added, "Well, what am I to tell him, that his father was an assassin? That I persuaded him to drink Darkspawn blood and bed me because the woman he loved would die if he refused?"

"You could tell him—I don't know. That he's half elf, for a start?" Naia suggested. "And that his father was a man who lived a hard life, but kept room for humor and kindness in spite of it. Have you ever wondered if you're anything like your father? What would you have wanted to know about him?"

"The man who fathered me slept with my mother. That is all I need know about him," Morrigan said quietly. "If I had anything of his, I am certain it is long gone now. Mother would have seen to that."

* * *

Leliana cleared her throat as soon as the morning war council meeting was assembled. "I had an interesting visitor last night. I have asked her to drop by our meeting when she can."

"Really, Leliana, you take too much pleasure in hints," Josephine scolded. "Just tell them who it is."

The spymaster smiled. It seemed like her usual cryptic expression, but there was a lightness to it that was not often there. "The Hero of Ferelden."

"You found her!" Cecily said, delighted.

"Or she found me." Leliana laughed softly. "It is hard to tell with Naia."

Sure enough, just as they were debating what to do with a treacherous Marquise, a knock came at the war council door. Leliana excused herself and stepped outside for a moment. With the door open a crack, they could hear her murmured conversation. "Well?" the spymaster asked.

"I think being sober for that might have been a bad choice," a Ferelden accent replied. "So, is this the mighty Inquisition's strategy room?"

"It is indeed. Come, meet our council." Leliana pushed open the door; they all looked back at the map and tried to pretend they hadn't been eavesdropping.

Leliana returned to the room with a red-haired elf at her side. "Josie, Cullen, Cecily. This is Naia Tabris."

Josephine, of course, was the first to reply. "Josephine Montilyet, Ambassador of the Inquisition. It is a tremendous honor."

"Likewise, Ambassador," Naia said with a friendly smile. "Nice to see you again."

"Allow me to present Lady Cecily Trevelyan, our Inquisitor, and Commander Cullen Rutherford, who leads our forces" Josephine added, gesturing to each of them in turn.

Recognition flared in her eyes, but all Naia said was, "Hello."

"I am told we met at Kinloch Hold," Cullen said after a slightly uncomfortable pause. "I am afraid I do not remember it well. But I owe you a great debt for what you did there, for saving the mages and Templars alike."

"You look very well, Commander," the elf said, relief clear on her face. "I'm glad to see you again."

Cecily walked over and extended her hand—a gesture she suspected Naia would like better than a curtsy. "It's a pleasure," she said sincerely.

Naia gripped Cecily's hand, her palms and fingers rough with calluses. "The pleasure is mine, Inquisitor. I can't thank you enough for what you did at Adamant."

For a moment Cecily held out a slim little hope that Naia had brought them a way to kill Corypheus. But it seemed that his existence in that prison had been kept a secret even within the Wardens, and Naia was candid about the fact that she was, as she put it, "not exactly Weisshaupt's favorite Hero of Ferelden." She told them what she knew about the Calling, about red lyrium and the Blight and archdemons, but little of it was new—except for the rather alarming bit about a talking Darkspawn named The Architect.

When Cecily and the others left the meeting, Skyhold was already abuzz about the Hero of Ferelden's visit. By late afternoon, the excitement was at such a pitch that Josephine decided to throw an impromptu celebration for the Inquisition's people in honor of their guest.

So much chatter and attention from so many strangers would have sent Cecily running for the nearest locked room, but Naia handled it with aplomb. Barely an hour into the party she seemed to know half the Inquisition by name and was swinging around a bonfire with Krem, having picked up the steps to a Tevinter reel with less than five minutes of instruction. Cecily couldn't help feeling a bit envious of the Warden's ease with people. She remembered what Cassandra had told her, that the elf had been their first choice to lead the Inquisition. She wasn't entirely certain what to do with that thought, so she spent the party chatting with her friends—and sneaking a quick kiss with Cullen behind the tavern.

It was another hour after that before it occurred to her that she had not yet seen Blackwall.

"Dunno," said Sera, when Cecily asked her if she knew where he was. "But he should be here, yeah? I mean, he's all 'ooh, Wardens, important,' and that one's the most important one there is, right?" She frowned. "It's weird that he's not here, innit."

"It is. I'm going to go find him," Cecily said.

Eventually Cecily did find Blackwall—alone in the barn, staring at a wooden carving of a griffon. "Evening, Inquisitor," he said when she approached.

 _Perhaps he's just not one for parties._ "Here you are. So did you meet her? The Hero of Ferelden?" Cecily asked. "Come on, I'll introduce you if you haven't."

She thought Blackwall would be delighted—if he took such pleasure in finding Grey Warden banners and swords, how could he not be thrilled that the most famous living Warden was in Skyhold? But his expression when he looked over at her was not at all what she expected. Blackwall's eyes were rimmed with red and his face looked haggard; he seemed ten years older than he had yesterday.

"Want a drink?" he asked abruptly. "I've a hankering for company."

"Certainly," Cecily said, puzzled. "There is a party outside, you know. You should join us."

But Blackwall was already pouring whiskey into two whittled wooden cups.

This was not Blackwell's first drink of the evening, Cecily realized; his movements were unsteady and his eyes a bit unfocused. He handed her the cup and launched into a strange story about a dog that he had seen some other children kill, years ago.

"And I just shut the door," he finished. "I might as well have tied the noose around his neck myself."

"You were only a child," Cecily said, baffled. _What is this about?_

"That's no excuse," he replied roughly.

Cecily felt profoundly uncomfortable—Blackwall was clearly not well, and she did not know how to help him, or if she even could. The agitated, distracted man in front of her seemed nothing like the gentle warrior who joked with Sera and took such pride in his Wardens.

"Do you remember what that demon said in the Fade?" he asked her suddenly.

"That creature said a lot of things," she said with an attempt at bravado. The truth was, the demon's words about her had run through her mind for weeks after Adamant. She shook off that memory and tried to remember exactly what it had claimed about Blackwall—something about how he was not like the other Grey Wardens? "But they were things that we _feared_ were true, not things that were _actually_ true," she added, hoping that would be reassuring.

"I know that," he growled. "No one could hear what it said to you and not realize that thing was full of lies." He met her eyes with such intensity that Cecily felt half paralyzed. "But was it right about what you fear, Inquisitor? Failing the people you lead? Hurting the people who trust you? Are those the things that you fear the most?"

Cecily felt a stab of guilt; it was probably not reassuring to hear that your Inquisitor thought she might not be up to the task. "Yes," she said honestly, because there was really no other response.

"Then you deserve our loyalty," he said. "We're lucky there are people like you in the world."

For some reason, those words seemed to make him even more miserable. "There's always some dog out there. Some fucking mongrel who doesn't know how to stay away."

Cecily sipped her own whiskey as he drained his, wishing she knew what to say.


	23. Chapter 23

Leliana was late for the morning war council meeting. Cecily assumed it was because of her friend's visit—or perhaps because they had all been in a _very_ celebratory mood the night before—until the spymaster pushed open the door, her face hard and serious.

"Blackwall is gone," she said without preamble.

Josephine let out a soft, dismayed little gasp.

"He was acting very strangely last night," Cecily said. "Perhaps he just went to clear his head? I'm sure he's planning to come back."

Leliana cut her off by handing her a piece of paper. "I do not think so. My people tell me he left early in the morning and took most of his gear. He left this for you."

A sick, gnawing feeling clawed at Cecily's stomach as she unfolded the letter.

 _Inquisitor,_

 _You've been a friend and an inspiration. You've given me the wisdom to know right from wrong and, more importantly, the courage to uphold the former._

 _It's been my honor to serve you._

Curiously, the note was unsigned. Cecily handed the paper to Josephine, who read it with wide, stunned eyes, then passed it on to Cullen.

"What in the Maker's name is this about?" Cullen asked.

"The only thing we found in his quarters was a notice about the execution of a man named Cyril Mornay, who helped assassinate one of Celene's generals four years ago." Leliana scowled. "The notice had been taken from one of my reports. I will have to have a discussion with my people about who is allowed to carry our intelligence briefings."

"A family member, perhaps?" Cecily guessed. "Or a friend? When is the execution?"

"In three days, in Val Royeaux."

"Then … I will go there as well," Cecily said. "If he is in trouble, I would like to help him, if we can."

She took the letter back from Cullen and stared at it unhappily. She and the Warden were not close, she knew; he had yet to call her anything other than "Herald" or "Inquisitor" or "my Lady," and they had never been able to joke with one another as he did with Varric or Sera. But she had thought he respected her. No, she _knew_ that he respected her; he would not have stayed with the Inquisition otherwise. _If he was in trouble, why could he not tell us—tell me?_

Cullen nodded. "I'll accompany you. We can be ready within the hour."

* * *

Naia's meeting with Grand Enchanter Fiona did not go well.

Oh, the woman was forthcoming, to a point. She was straightforward about the events that had preceded the discovery that she no longer carried the Taint—or, at least, everything she said agreed with the Warden records. But Naia had never been good at concealing irritation.

"I see. So you know nothing. As I'd heard." Naia pushed her chair back. "Thank you for your time, I suppose."

"It is not uncommon, you know," Fiona said, her voice so sympathetic that it verged on condescending. "To feel … upset with me, and angry that there seems to be little chance of this happening for you. Many have wished to avoid the fate the Calling will bring."

Naia just stared at her. Then she laughed sharply. "You think that's why I'm angry—that I'm _jealous_?" She blew her breath out and shook her head. "You have no idea, do you?"

"I am afraid not," the Grand Enchanter said dryly. "I truly see no reason why you would be this hostile. We have never met. I have done nothing to you."

"No, but you did plenty to Alistair," Naia told her coldly.

Fiona went pale.

"He helped you, helped your rebellion, gave you shelter, and you repaid him by inviting a bunch of Tevinters to take over Redcliffe and run off their Arl?" Naia crossed her arms; it was the only way she thought she could prevent her hands from strangling the woman. "Explain that to me. Please."

"I did what I had to do to save my people," Fiona said weakly. "We were losing the war, and badly. It seemed the only way. I know it must seem a poor excuse, but it was never my intention to cause your King problems."

"Well, you did," Naia snapped. "And not just political problems, either. Alistair is a trusting man, a kind one. Do you know how hard it's been for him to remain that way, wearing that damned crown? He felt sorry for you, saw that mages had been given a raw deal. He held out his hand and you spat in his face."

Fiona said nothing. Naia gritted her teeth. "Look, I don't care about a cure for myself. I was headed for a hangman's noose when Duncan recruited me. Every day I've spent with the Taint has been a day I wouldn't have had without it. But I need it for Alistair, because he needs an heir. So if you feel any guilt at all about the shitstorm you brought down on him, and you're holding back something that could help, now is the time to tell me."

Fiona's shoulder slumped. "No. There is nothing," she said hollowly, placing her elbows on the table and toying nervously with her hands. "I knew his father. For Maric's sake—for Alistair's—I would do anything. Please believe that if I could help you, I would."

Naia felt her anger cooling. "Then, thank you. Goodbye."

She stood to go, but suddenly, Fiona put out her hand. "Wait."

Naia looked at her. The Grand Enchanter was staring at the table, her face drawn and unhappy. "I told you all I know. But I have not told you all that happened. I discovered that I had been purged of the Taint when I found myself pregnant."

She struggled with the next part. "The child … was Maric's. It was a boy. I gave him to Maric, asked him to raise the child as a human, with no knowledge of me, and far from court intrigue." Fiona looked up then, and watched her, waiting.

Naia's legs went weak. "Maker's fucking _balls_ ," she gasped, collapsing back into her chair. "You're Alistair's _mother_?" For a moment she wondered if the mage was lying—but she was suddenly certain that it was the truth. What could Fiona possibly gain from claiming that, if it were a lie?

The Grand Enchanter nodded. "Please do not tell him."

"You must be joking," Naia said incredulously. "He's dreamed for years of having family. I'm not going to find out that his mother is still alive and keep it a secret from him!"

"It will bring him no joy, after Redcliffe," Fiona warned.

Naia threw her hands up. "Redcliffe's on your head, not mine. I'm not hiding this from him just because you got in bed with Tevinter."

For a minute Fiona looked so miserable that Naia almost relented—but she knew herself. She could not keep such a thing from Alistair even if she'd wanted to. "Why did you tell me, if you didn't want him to know?"

Fiona chuckled bitterly. "Well, now I wish I had not. But … I suppose I have wanted to tell someone for a very long time. You know Alistair. You are clearly a loyal friend. And I have always wondered—why did you give him the crown? His father never wanted it. It brought Maric nothing but grief."

"Because Alistair told me to. Because he knew, and I knew, that he was the only one who could do what needed to be done," Naia said. "He has been a good king. But there are many times when I wish, for his sake, that someone else was on that throne." She snorted softly. "If only Anora had been a bit less of a viper."

The former Warden sighed. "It seems the fate of the Theirins, to take on burdens because there is no one else to do so." She fell silent. "I would like to be alone, if you don't mind."

Naia nodded and stood to go. She was halfway to the door when an idea occurred to her—a compromise, of sorts.

"You have six months," she said abruptly, turning her head back a bit. "Write him a letter, visit him in Denerim—handle it however you like, but you have six months to tell Alistair you're his mother, and whatever else you think he should know. When the six months are up, I tell him. He will learn the truth, but you may choose how he finds out."

"Thank you, I suppose," Fiona whispered behind her. "I can see that you mean to be kind."

* * *

Leliana's people made an effort to trace Blackwall in Val Royeaux, but on the morning of the execution they had yet to find him. They had no choice but to try and spot him at the hanging. Cecily and Cullen found themselves packed into a throng of angry Orlesians, all anticipating Mornay's death. Lord Callier had been popular, and his family had apparently been victims as well; this was not a crime that had been forgotten.

Cecily was not at all surprised when Blackwall stepped onto the gallows. Anxiously, she waited for him to reveal his purpose. Did he have evidence that could clear the man—or perhaps he meant to conscript Mornay for the Wardens?

Blackwall looked onto the crowd and caught Cecily's eye. He flinched visibly when he saw her, but his voice was steady when he spoke. "This man is innocent of the crimes set before him."

Not even Varric could have written what quiet, loyal Blackwall said next. "He was following orders— _my_ orders. I am Thom Rainier."

"He's lying," Cecily gasped, clutching at Cullen's arm. "Cullen, why would he—we have to tell them he's lying! There must be another way to save Mornay, if that's what he wants!"

But then Mornay looked up at Blackwall, and Cecily saw the expression in the condemned man's eyes, and she knew. _Maker's breath. He's telling the truth._


	24. Chapter 24

"The Inquisitor would like to speak with this man. I am to secure the area for her. You may leave us," the Commander said. He wondered if the prison guards would argue with him—technically, he did not have much authority to order Val Royeaux soldiers to leave their post—but the guards responded to his tone, bowed, and departed.

Cullen was left alone with Captain Thom Rainier.

"Is the Inquisitor truly coming? Or did you want a word with me yourself?" Rainier asked as Cullen examined the cells, kicking apparently empty piles of hay to check for assassins.

"She is coming," Cullen said stiffly. "For some reason, she feels you owe her an explanation. Or, perhaps, that she owes _you_ a chance to explain yourself." He kept his eyes away from Rainier's cell; he didn't think he could look at the man right now.

"She's going to ask for your advice about me," Rainier said, his voice low.

"I imagine we will discuss your fate at the war council, yes," Cullen replied as he stepped out of the last empty cell.

"I mean, she's going to ask _you_. You know what it means to have the loyalty of the people you lead into battle, just as she does. You both know exactly why what I did was so monstrous." The false Warden turned towards the wall of his cell, his movements slow, shaky. "When she asks, tell her to leave me here. Tell her I've earned this fate, that the Inquisition is better off without me. You know it's the truth."

"If that's what you'd prefer, you can tell her that yourself," Cullen said. "I haven't decided what I'd prefer."

Rainier turned to him, his lip curled. "Don't try to pretend I don't disgust you, Commander. You'd be glad to see my head in that hangman's noose."

Cullen shook his head. "What you did to the Calliers, to your men, does disgust me. If that was all I knew of you I suppose I would not be sorry to see you hang. But I've also seen you fight for us, and own up to your past when you could have escaped it. I am not being dishonest, Rainier. I truly do not know what I will tell the Inquisitor when she asks what I think should be done with you."

Rainier snorted. "Then you're a damned fool."

"You can imagine how much I value your opinion at the moment, I'm sure," Cullen said evenly, swallowing the sarcastic venom that wanted to accompany those words.

Soft footsteps descended the stairs to the cells. "Commander?"

"It is secure, Inquisitor," Cullen replied. He spared one last glare for Rainier—and allowed himself one quick press of his hand against Cecily's shoulder before he moved to the stairs. The Inquisitor seemed calm, composed, but Cullen could see the lines of tension around her mouth, the way her shoulders were set just a bit too high.

He was not sure what to think of Rainier's crimes, or his attempted atonement as Blackwall. But Cecily had trusted their false Warden, and right now, he could have killed the man himself for shattering that.

* * *

The conversation with Thom Rainier was baffling, and horrifying, and deeply sad. He called himself a murderer, a monster; he seemed truly sickened by his actions. But he also said that it had been just one mistake—a mistake, as if taking gold in recompense for murder were the same as taking a wrong turn on the road to Denerim—and claimed that the same crime during a war would have won a medal. By the time Cecily left the jail, she felt utterly wrung out, like a rag that had been twisted and twisted until it was threadbare and torn.

Cullen was waiting for her. For a moment Cecily wanted to wrap her arms around him, to take comfort in being held, but what they had still felt too new. She could not break down on him every time she faced a hard choice just because they had shared a few kisses. Here, she had to be the Inquisitor, and he had to be the Commander.

"Thank you, Commander," she said briskly. "I think we are done here."

Cullen's brow furrowed. "As you say, Inquisitor," he said, a bit uncertainly. "I have a report on Thom Rainier should you wish to see it."

Cecily took the sheaf of papers, grateful for something to occupy her hands; they were still shaking. "I'll read it later. Is there anything I should know right away? Anything in this that contradicts what we heard?"

Cullen shook his head. "I'm afraid not. It is as bad as he described."

"Maker," Cecily whispered, her Inquisitor poise deserting her. "What he did— _children_ , Cullen. And he let some of his men be punished while he got away. All for coin."

Cullen's face was hard. "He betrayed the men under his command, and betrayed our trust. I despise him for it."

"Yet today he sacrificed his freedom to save Mornay's life, when he could easily have continued the lie," Cecily said, shaking her head.

"What he did took courage, I'll give him that," Cullen agreed. "And he joined the Inquisition, shed blood for our cause. I can see why you might feel … that you owe him, perhaps. Or that you are responsible for him."

Cecily's mouth twitched in a bitter smile. "Indeed. I do feel responsible for Blackwall. But am I responsible for Thom Rainier?"

"Well, that's the question, isn't it?" Cullen asked with a sigh. "We have resources. If you wish him fetched back to the Inquisition to face your judgment, it may be possible. We can discuss our options back at Skyhold."

She took a deep breath and loosened her grip on the report; her fingers were starting to ache from clutching it so tightly. "Yes. I suppose we will have time, won't we? Orlais will want to see Thom Rainier tried and killed with as much spectacle as possible." She could not suppress a shiver.

* * *

The meeting at the war council stretched over several long hours, well into the evening. Josephine's sadness tore at Cecily's heart, but she was still their practical Ambassador, and she offered several options for persuading Celene to release Rainier to them. Cullen, ever the military man, suggested an ambush when he was transported. Leliana knew criminals in Val Royeaux who could liberate Rainier with no stain on the Inquisition's reputation, although she admitted that it would probably be best if Cecily and the others knew no more.

All of these options seemed bad. And none of them were certain about whether an option should be exercised at all. The decision would fall to the Inquisitor.

With that determined, Cecily called an end to the meeting. She quietly assured Cullen that she was well and simply needed time alone to think, then set out for a walk around Skyhold.

Somehow, she found herself walking past the barn, past the place where the man she'd known as Blackwall had made his home. She could see the griffon he'd carved still sitting on his table—and a small bundle of wilted flowers that she suspected he had intended for Josephine.

And suddenly Cecily found herself crying for the first time since Haven. At first, it was a quiet little cry, but then she thought of the way Josephine had looked in the war room, thought about what she was going to tell Sera, and she began sobbing, so painfully that she almost could not walk. She stumbled to the bench outside the stables, buried her face in her hands, and did not bother to try and stop the tears.

She prayed that no one would happen upon her in this state, but the Maker was not that kind. After a few moments, soft footsteps sounded in the gravel nearby.

"This is a stupid question. But are you all right?"

 _Oh, splendid. If there had to be a witness, of course it's the Hero of bloody Ferelden._

Cecily pulled her face out of her hands and gulped down a breath. "I … am not. There is a hard choice to be made, and I … You must think me very weak."

"Hardly," the Warden said, tilting her head sympathetically. "I think a good cry is healthy. Just ask Leliana, I spent a pretty big chunk of the Blight sobbing on her shoulder."

"That's kind of you to say, Warden-Commander," Cecily said, searching the pockets of her riding coat for a handkerchief, or something resembling one. Happily, she found one—it was slightly crumpled, but clean.

"Just Naia's fine," the elf said as Cecily wiped her eyes. "Do you want me to find someone for you—a friend, I mean?"

Cecily took another shaky breath. "Warden-Commander—Naia, do the Wardens ever recruit criminals?"

"Oh yes," the Warden said immediately. "A lot of recruits die from the Joining. People don't risk it unless they're really devoted or they have no other options. We conscript quite a few criminals, if they're skilled fighters and they care enough to change their path. We like to see it as a second chance."

Cecily looked up at Naia, and suddenly, the entire story came spilling out.

"I have no idea what to do," she confessed when she finished. She glanced at Naia, who had taken a seat beside her during her long tale. "He fought by our side, and he's saved the lives of almost everyone in the Inquisition at one point or another. If he hadn't been at Adamant I'm not sure how things would have ended. But what he did was …"

"Unforgiveable," Naia finished grimly, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. "He killed for gold he didn't need, used the people who trusted him to do it, and then he ran away while some of them were punished for it. This is awful. I'm so sorry, Inquisitor."

Hearing someone else admit that this whole situation was awful felt comforting, somehow. "I know what I would _like_ to do," Cecily said softly. "Whatever he was before, he has been a loyal ally, a key member of our forces. Even now, if we were in battle together I would still trust him with my life. Am I naïve?"

"I fell in love with my own assassin. I'm probably the wrong person to ask," Naia said wryly. "But no. I don't think you are." She paused. "I could conscript him for the Wardens," she offered.

Cecily was bitterly tempted. "No, I could not ask that of you. The Empress would be furious, and the Warden presence in Orlais is still uneasy after Adamant." She sighed. "Our best option seems to be using Leliana's underworld contacts to free him, leaving the Inquisition's reputation out of it, but I'm not sure I want to trust something so delicate to criminals."

Naia's face went still; her attention had been caught by something behind Cecily. Then, slowly, she arched an eyebrow. "I think I may have an idea, Inquisitor."

Cecily turned, following the Warden's gaze. A blond elven man with warm olive skin and a tattoo on his face was walking towards them; he beamed as soon as he met Naia's eyes. Naia rose and crossed the courtyard, moving at something close to a run. The man caught her by the waist and gave her a warm, affectionate kiss. Then Naia tugged at his arm and pulled him over to the bench.

"Inquisitor Trevelyan, meet Zevran Arainai," she said.

Zevran swept her an elaborate bow. "My Lady Inquisitor. It is truly a pleasure. I have heard many stories of your bravery, but I see the tales did not do justice to your beauty." He raised his eyes to hers and gave her a slight smile.

Cecily hoped the darkness was hiding her blush. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Serrah Arainai. You are very welcome at Skyhold."

Naia elbowed Zevran in the ribs as he straightened. "Stop flirting with the Inquisitor, Zev. She's got a job for us."


	25. Chapter 25

He was not sure how long he had been in this cell. A week, perhaps. That was only a guess. He did not care, exactly. But it felt strange, not knowing what day it was.

Thom Rainier lay in the dark and waited to die.

Sleep came fitfully, and at strange times; a few hours at night, a few hours while pale daylight seeped down the stairs. He was fairly certain it was night when he heard the thump on the floor above him. They were dragging in another prisoner, he suspected; perhaps one who had been brought in unconscious.

Then, voices.

"Have I told you how much I have missed committing burglary with you, my Dark Wolf?" asked a soft Antivan accent.

"Not today, no," a female voice replied. "That should be all of the guards. Come on, he's downstairs."

Rainier sat up as two figures slipped into the gloom of the small jail—elves, from their slender frames. Both were dressed in soft grey, with dark scarves wound around their faces and hair. "Will you, or shall I?" asked the female voice.

"You should, of course," the male elf said, gesturing towards Rainier's cell. "You know how I like to watch."

"If you're here to kill me, just get it over with," Rainier said. He had expected this; there were many in Orlais who would not want these events dragged up again if it could be helped. Deliberately, he stood and stepped to the door of his cell. He curled his hands around the bars and leaned forward, letting the frigid metal dig into his limbs and chest and forehead. It would be easy for the elf to slide a dagger between his ribs.

"We are not. You may want to step back, I'm about to open that door," the woman said. She dropped to her right knee and slid a pair of lockpicks out of her sleeve. With practiced efficiency, she slipped them into the lock and began her work.

"These things you do with your fingers, my dear. They are like poetry," the male elf said as she twisted the lockpicks.

"I do love it when you needlessly flatter me," she replied.

"Are you here to kidnap me? Or will you just be having sex on the floor in front of my cell?" Rainier growled.

"Who says we cannot do both, my hirsute friend?" the man said.

A moment later the lock tumbled open; the woman stood and slid the picks back into her sleeve. Out of pure instinct, Rainier took two quick steps back.

"We mean you no harm," the woman said, opening the cell door. "We're here on behalf of the Inquisition." When Rainier did not move, she added, "Please come with us. You're rather large and I don't want to dose you with knockout powder and carry you."

"So the Inquisitor has allied herself with criminals on my account," he said. A sour taste flooded his mouth; he almost gagged. "How many did you kill to reach me?"

"Are we certain the Inquisitor wants this man back?" the Antivan said doubtfully. "He is a rather grim fellow."

"We didn't kill anyone. The guards will wake with headaches tomorrow, but there's no new blood on your hands for this. Andraste's ass, man," the woman said, crossing her arms and giving her fingers a few impatient taps. "Are you really going to make us carry you?"

Rainier sighed. "Very well. Lead on."

True to their word, the elves handled him gently. They tossed a cloak over his shoulders to provide at least some cover against being easily recognized, then swept him through several back alleys in Val Royeaux. The two moved so fast that there were moments when Rainier almost stumbled, unable to keep up after so much inactivity. They saw, and slowed their pace. Eventually they reached the outskirts of the city, where three horses awaited them. The elves tied his hands to his saddle and tethered his horse to the man's mount, but were otherwise courteous.

An hour later, they were far enough outside the city that Rainier felt he could speak. "Who are you? What did the Inquisition promise you in recompense for this?"

The elves looked at each other; the woman shrugged and stripped her scarf from her face.

Rainier found himself staring directly at the Hero of Ferelden.

"I'm Naia," she said unnecessarily. "And this is Zevran." The male elf unwound his scarf and gave Rainier an amused little nod.

"The Inquisition sent _you_?" he asked, looking between her and her companion, feeling as if the world were spinning around him.

Naia nodded. "Actually, we volunteered. The Wardens owed the Inquisition one after Adamant—well, a lot more than one, more like one hundred. And the Inquisitor said you helped talk the survivors down, so I figured we owed you one too. Besides, we _really_ like breaking into places."

"So we do," Zevran agreed cheerfully.

Rainier was utterly at a loss for what to say. What came out was, "Maker's balls. I need a drink."

Naia laughed, not unkindly. "I can't promise that the Inquisition has whiskey rations for prisoners, but I'll see what we can do."

* * *

Cecily never enjoyed sitting in judgment at Skyhold—with the possible exception of her meeting with the Avaar goat-thrower—but she hoped she would never face a worse sight than this. Two Inquisition guards were half-guiding, half-dragging Thom Rainier towards the Inquisition's throne.

Josephine's voice only wobbled a little as she presented the man for judgment. Cecily breathed deeply through her nose and ran her fingers down the arms of the chair, not bothering to conceal how much this distressed her. She had cleared the audience chamber of all but those she trusted with this secret; the people here would not fault her for a few cracks in her composure.

Rainier looked even worse than Cecily felt. His hair and beard were matted, his clothing rumpled and stained, his eyes bloodshot and exhausted; the shackles on his hands dragged his shoulders down in a painful slump. "You fought by my side against some of the worst enemies we have faced. I do not enjoy seeing you like this," Cecily said honestly.

"Another thing to regret." His voice was rough. "You took me from jail under cover of night—took a murderer from the justice that awaited him. You're a criminal now, the same as me."

Cecily felt her hands tighten on the arms of her throne. "I beg your pardon, _Captain Rainier_?" she said icily. "Please, do lecture me on my criminal activities. Perhaps you've been keeping a list of the people _I've_ killed for money?" She regretted that as soon as she said it—but only a little.

The warrior grimaced and looked away. "Pronounce your judgment. You went to enough trouble to claim it. There is nothing I could say in my own defense."

Cecily closed her eyes and took a long, silent breath through her nose. Then she opened her eyes and looked at him. "Thom Rainier, formerly known to us as Blackwall. I sentence you to resume your duties with the Inquisition, until such time as I release you. When your service to the Inquisition is concluded, you will report to Warden-Commander Nathaniel Howe in Amaranthine to undertake the Joining."

Rainier's eyes widened. "As you command."

"Many die from the Joining, and I have it on good authority that a Warden's life is not an easy one," Cecily told him seriously. "This is no escape. It is simply an opportunity to _be_ the man you claimed, or someone like him." She studied his face quietly—so familiar and yet so strange. "I am also told that the Wardens often extend second chances. It seems a worthy example for the Inquisition to emulate."

Thom Rainier stood there, stunned. Then, slowly, he bowed, as respectful and grateful a gesture as a man in shackles could have possibly made. "You have my sword, my Lady, for however long you need it. And when you do not, I swear to you that I will carry out your judgment. If I die, it will be no less than I deserve. And if I live … I'll make it count."

"The Inquisition needs you, serrah. You are free to go and resume your work. Unshackle him," Cecily told the guards.

As the cuffs were unlocked from his wrists, Rainier—Blackwall— _Maker, what are we supposed to call him now?_ —turned his face to Josephine. She closed her eyes and inclined her head, only a touch, but Cecily could sense forgiveness in the gesture.

 _If Josie can forgive him, surely the rest of us can as well?_

* * *

He could feel so many pairs of eyes on him as the shackles were removed. He wondered if he ought to say something, but he had said the only words he could when he'd thanked the Inquisitor for her choice. He had not known what this serious, softhearted woman would do with him. Perhaps he should have guessed. Sending him to the Wardens was exactly the kind of poetic sentence she seemed to prefer.

He turned away from the throne and began his walk down the length of Skyhold's central chamber, standing straight but not meeting anyone's gaze. His muscles were cold and stiff; he rubbed his wrists, trying to shake off the memory of the shackles around them.

He was not sure how he should think of himself. _Rainier_ , he knew, was his rightful name. But it was hard to think of himself by that name in Skyhold, in a place where people had only known him as _Blackwall_.

Sister Leliana was waiting for him in the stables. She avoided the issue entirely by simply saying, "You."

"Can I help you, Sister?" Blackwall-Rainier asked. His weariness had seeped so deep into his bones that he wondered if he might collapse from the sheer effort of talking to this terrifying woman.

"I blame myself, in a way," the spymaster said, looking him up and down, taking his measure. "I do have a blind spot when it comes to the Wardens. I will not make such a mistake again."

"Is that your way of saying you'll be watching me, Sister?" he asked, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"It is," she said. There was a remarkable amount of menace in those two small words.

"I would have expected no less," he admitted. "And I suspect you'll have company." He could not imagine what Cassandra would say to him, or Varric, or Sera, or Josephine. _They will hate me now. But I gave them that right._

For one bitter, ungrateful moment, he almost wished for his cell in Val Royeaux. Death, he saw, might have been the easier path.

* * *

It was another long meeting of the war council.

Despite their best efforts, the news that Blackwall was not truly Blackwall had already reached some of the people who had given the Inquisition coin and men based on his Warden treaties. Cullen argued vigorously for keeping what they'd taken—"We're allied with the Wardens now, aren't we?"—while Josephine urged Cecily to smooth ruffled feathers by returning everything and offering apologies. Leliana was silent, as she usually was when she could see both sides of the argument.

"We'll return the coin and men," Cecily said finally. "Maker willing, that will be the end of this mess. I suggest we all get some sleep. It has been an extremely trying day." Her tone was clipped, businesslike, almost brusque, and she was the first one to exit the war council room after everyone nodded their acceptance of her decision.

Cullen almost had to run to catch her. "Inquisitor, a moment, if I may," he said, trying to maintain some sort of professionalism as Leliana and Josephine slipped by them.

She paused and turned to him. "Commander?"

He waited until Josephine and Leliana had left the hallway. "Are you all right?"

She stood a bit straighter, her posture almost defensive, then her shoulder slumped. "No, not entirely," she admitted. She rubbed a hand behind her neck, shaking some of her hair loose from its pins.

"This has been hard on you." Cullen reached out to brush her hair behind her ear, but then he hesitated and pulled his hand back. "I do not mean to pry, but … you have been distant these past few days. Are you, I mean, do you still want …?" He could not bring himself to ask the rest of that question.

Cecily crossed her arms nervously. "I … I know. It's just—I don't want to saddle you with my burdens simply because we are courting." Her eyes suddenly widened. "But—oh, Maker, Cullen, I'm sorry! Of course I still want this. I just haven't been very good at showing it of late. There are times when I need to be the Inquisitor, not just Cecily, and I know you'd rather not have everyone in Skyhold talking about us so I try to be careful."

"You're allowed to share your burdens. And there's no one else here," Cullen said softly. "If you like, I don't have to be the Commander right now. I'm just Cullen."

Cecily closed her eyes. "I would like that very much." She stepped close and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her face into his shoulder, apparently not bothered by the armor. Cullen held her tight, rubbing her back gently, trying to ease the tension in her frame.

"I still don't know if I did the right thing," she mumbled.

"I know," he said. "In this case, there might have been more than one right thing to do. For what it's worth, I think you did a right thing."

They stood like that for a long time. Then Cullen got up his courage and said, "I think things might be easier if … if the others knew. I will admit I don't like the thought of you—of us—being the subject of barracks gossip, but it would be far worse if there were nothing to gossip about." He kissed her hair. "And if they know, it will finally stop Dorian from stepping on my foot and giving me a meaningful look every time you draw near. I was not entirely subtle about my feelings for you, apparently."

Cecily laughed. "Neither was I. Remind me to tell you about the advice The Iron Bull gave me."

"I'm not going to like this, am I?" Cullen groaned.

She tilted her face up, her cheeks flushing. "Well, actually, I'd hope you might find it appealing. But I'll need a few drinks before I can repeat it."


	26. Chapter 26

They decided to begin by telling Josephine and Leliana, the two who were arguably most affected by their changed relationship. The spymaster and the Ambassador exchanged glances, then Leliana admitted, "We knew."

"And we are very pleased for you," Josephine added. "Although there will be some devastated young Orlesian ladies."

"I am glad you told us," Leliana said. "Now we can stop pretending to believe your ridiculous excuses about 'Inquisition emergencies.'" She gave them both a scolding look, but there was a great deal of affection in it.

Cecily and Cullen blushed in unison.

The next person Cecily wanted to tell was Dorian, whom Cullen predicted would be "insufferably smug" about the news. She found him in the garden reading a heavy Tevinter tome. She had tried to think of a way to bring up the topic naturally, but she'd failed, so she simply sat down on the bench next to him and opened with, "About two weeks ago Cullen and I kissed. We've been courting ever since."

Dorian immediately set his book down and gave her a very satisfied smile. "Well. I rather thought as much."

Cecily blinked. "You did?" _Maker's breath, does_ everyone _already know?_

"It was just a suspicion, mind you. But the looks you were giving each other seemed to go from 'puppy-eyed longing' to 'I need to get you alone so I can remove your clothes with my teeth.'" He laughed at her expression. "Which I think is adorable, by the way! Now, tell me," he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders. " _Exactly_ when did you first kiss? I have five sovereigns riding on two weeks ago Thursday."

"Dorian!" Cecily scolded. Then she began counting. "… actually, you won your bet. But don't you dare tell Cullen people were gambling on this." She placed a finger on his chest for emphasis. Dorian simply laughed and hugged her.

"I must say I'm impressed. How have you managed to keep this so quiet?" he asked. "Are you slipping out of each others' beds in the middle of the night to avoid detection? I wouldn't have thought the Commander so sneaky."

"We haven't even—I am not telling you this," Cecily said, blushing.

Dorian groaned. "What do you _mean_ , you haven't even?"

"We're taking things slowly."

"Of course you are. How nauseatingly romantic of you." The Tevinter mage's eyes glinted merrily. "I insist on hearing all of the details when you do."

"Absolutely not," Cecily said, laughing. "Would you tell _me_ all of the details if you were bedding someone?"

Dorian cleared his throat. "I. Well. No, I haven't been."

Cecily's jaw dropped. " _Dorian_! Who?"

He paused for a moment. "The Iron Bull," he said. He was looking at her as if he wasn't quite certain how she would respond.

Cecily raised her eyebrow. "I have to know: who seduced who? Because he's been eyeing you ever since I dragged you two out to the Western Approach."

Dorian's expression relaxed into a smile. "He seduced me, of course. And anything else he tells you is a ridiculous lie. Now then." He released her shoulders and slid his arm through hers. "Come with me. I need you to tell Bull."

Cecily stood with him and smiled. "Is there a specific reason?"

"Who do you think owes me five sovereigns?"

As they crossed the Skyhold courtyard towards the tavern, Cecily noticed Mother Giselle, standing in the gardens and watching them. Her face was serious, concerned. Cecily made a mental note to speak to her when she had a moment. Giselle would approach her if anything were truly wrong, she hoped, but she did not like the unhappy look in the Revered Mother's eyes.

* * *

By nightfall, it seemed as if everyone knew.

Cassandra sternly advised Cullen not to let himself be distracted, or to let himself distract her, before saying, "You are good for each other. Treasure what you have." Which was a much more romantic sentiment than Cullen had expected from the Seeker, and he was moved by it—although it did make him curious about the books she was reading.

"The task before our Inquisitor is difficult; it is good that she has someone with whom she can find respite," Solas told him seriously.

Others were less poetic. "Good for you, Curly," Varric said as he and Cullen passed in the hall. "I hope she makes you crack a smile once in a while, it'll be healthy."

"Heard about you and the boss. Finally. I thought someone was going to have to draw you two a diagram," The Iron Bull told him during their afternoon sparring match.

Sera just looked at him and chortled something about peaches that he did not ask her to repeat.

It was unexpectedly nice to realize how many people at Skyhold cared about them enough to notice and wish them well. Even so, Cullen was feeling a bit wrung out by the time he saw Cecily the next morning. And more than a little ready to escape the attention, however well-meaning.

"How has it been?" she asked anxiously, as they looked over the war table and waited for Leliana and Josephine.

"Better than I'd expected," he admitted, taking her hand. "I had a thought, if you'll indulge me?"

"By all means," she said with a little smile.

"I thought it could be nice to—that is to say, I'm leaving for the Hinterlands tomorrow to oversee some troop deployments. There's something nearby that I would like to show you. Do you think you might have some time?"

Her grin made every embarrassing comment more than worth it. "I think we're in luck, Commander." She pulled a report from the pile. "It just so happens that there's a dragon in the Hinterlands."

* * *

When he had first met the Inquisitor, back when he'd been Blackwall, he had not entirely understood her. He'd quickly developed a vague sense of the _type_ of person she was—a Bann's daughter, cool, serious, accustomed to being obeyed—and patterned his behavior accordingly. They would not be friends, he knew. But her cause was good, she was a fair and thoughtful leader, and he could play the loyal retainer for such a person.

He had been thoroughly shocked the first time he saw Sera run up behind the Herald, smack her playfully between the shoulderblades, and yell, "Oi! Cecily! Guess what I am!"

The elf began growling and moving her hands in the air, her fingers tightened into claws; the Herald had giggled, seeming genuinely amused by Sera's silliness. "Um. You're … Varric?"

"Well, if you're not going to take this seriously, I won't bother," Sera complained. "Seriously! Raaaargh!"

"A demon?" she'd said dryly.

"There ya go. Now you do one, Blackwall," Sera had said.

He had made an excuse—something about not having a talent for playacting, an ironic claim now that he thought about it—and he had never been able to bring himself to be as familiar with the Herald as most of the others she took into battle. But he had looked at her with new eyes from that point forward. Not every Bann's daughter would have deigned to speak to an elven archer with food on her tunic, much less laughed at her jokes.

Cecily Trevelyan was not just a good leader—she was a good woman. She had spared him execution in Orlais, but he did not expect that she would ever trust him again. So he was surprised, and not a little anxious, when he found her waiting for him in the barn one evening, a few days after his return to Skyhold.

"Inquisitor," he said, his stomach twisting.

"I—I've been meaning to ask." She ran a nervous finger over the griffon carving. "What should I call you now?"

He knew he should say _Rainier_. But … "Perhaps we could consider Blackwall a title. Like Inquisitor," he suggested. "It reminds me of what I ought to be."

"Good evening, then, Blackwall," she said, only hesitating a bit around the name. "I just came to ask how things have been. Since you came back, I mean. You've not been seen much outside the barn."

 _A foolish question._ "I'm bloody marvelous," he growled. "Aside from everyone hating me and talking about the worst thing I ever did, it's been a splendid homecoming." The self-pity he heard in those words made him flinch; he softened his voice. "My apologies, my Lady. I know it is no more than I deserve. But it seems wise to keep to myself."

She shook her head. "I knew it would not be easy for the others, or for you. Some of them may not forgive you. But some of them may surprise you. And Sera is worried about you. I believe her exact words were 'can you check on Beardy to make sure he's not gonna drown himself in his basin, yeah?'"

He chuckled; the Inquisitor's imitation of Sera's accent was actually rather good. "I will visit her, then. I promise."

She nodded approvingly. "I'll be going to the Hinterlands tomorrow. There are reports of a dragon terrorizing the local livestock. Are you interested? Sera's coming, and I promise to leave Vivienne here."

"Leave Skyhold? _Maker_ , yes," he said instinctively. "I mean—my sword is yours, my Lady."

Her mouth curved—just a brief flicker of amusement, but a welcome one. "We leave at first light. I'll see you tomorrow, Blackwall."

* * *

There were times when Varric missed The Hanged Man.

What he missed most, of course, were those comfortable games of Wicked Grace. Watching Isabela to make sure she didn't palm cards, reminding Daisy not to set her hand down face-up, coaxing a smile out of Fenris in spite of the elf's best efforts and laughing at whatever one-liner Hawke tossed out next.

But he also missed the bar itself, even though The Hanged Man was definitely no prize. Barely a night went by without a brawl (often involving Isabela), the whiskey was awful and the ale was worse, and pretty much every square inch of the floor had been vomited on within the past week. Oddly, those were the things he'd liked about it. The Inquisition's tavern was comfortable, but he missed that grime, the sense that you were taking your life into your hands by drinking from this place's tankards.

Of course, all taverns had one thing in common: gossip. So Varric was not surprised when he sat down in the Inquisition's tavern that evening and immediately heard one soldier telling another, "You know he's screwing the Herald."

The dwarf suppressed a groan. He knew the soldiers were bound to talk about their Commander and their Inquisitor—although he was surprised that the news had spread so quickly from their inner circle. But if these two were going to be crude they could at least be _creative_ about it.

"I'd heard that, yeah," a second soldier said, younger and stockier than the first. "You think he's teaching her blood magic?"

Well, _that_ made no sense. Varric edged closer.

"Maybe. I mean, he _is_ from Tevinter. You'd think the Seeker would have gotten rid of him by now. He must have Her Worship right where he wants her." That comment was followed by a very vulgar chortle.

Varric's hand tightened around his tankard. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head to look at the two men. "Nah. You're both idiots."

The two soldiers glowered when they realized he was talking to them. "What's it to you?" one of them asked.

"Everyone knows the Commander's courting the Inquisitor—it's obvious she's crazy about him," Varric said genially. "And Sparkler, er, Dorian's not a blood mage. Believe me, I saw enough of them in Kirkwall to know."

The two soldiers muttered something that didn't sound entirely complimentary. Varric sighed. "Look, gentlemen. Do yourselves a favor and don't spread that nonsense around. If Curly hears you, you'll find yourselves scrubbing latrines with your toothbrushes. And that's if you're lucky. Imagine what would happen if Seeker Cassandra overheard that kind of talk about the Herald."

"Mind your own business," the younger soldier muttered. The two of them stood and moved elsewhere in the tavern.

Varric rubbed the bridge of his nose and grimaced. He knew Cullen wouldn't thank him for spreading the news, but in Varric's experience the only way to counter that kind of story was by offering another story to take its place. Unfortunately, a sweet tale about the Inquisitor being courted by her handsome Commander was not nearly as tantalizing as the image of the Herald of Andraste lying naked with a Tevinter blood mage. The fact that _his_ story was true probably wasn't going to affect which one people believed.

 _Well. Shit._


	27. Chapter 27

"The boy. Should I meet him?"

Naia had been close to sleep, but Zev's question quickly woke her. He was sitting up, his knees bent, his arms curled loosely around his legs, looking out into the darkness in their room at Skyhold. She pushed herself into a seated position and slid closer to him. After so many years together his body was as familiar to her as her own; instinctively, she knew just where to settle her elbows and knees and shoulders so they would fit comfortably together, sitting side by side.

She had told Zev about Morrigan and Kieran as soon as he had reached Skyhold. He'd been stunned, understandably, and then he had dropped the subject for several days while they planned Blackwall's recapture from the Val Royeaux prison. Naia hadn't brought it up again; she could tell when Zev was just taking time to work something out. "Do you want to meet him?" she asked.

"I still do not know," Zev said, running a hand through his hair. "I never knew my own father—although that term hardly seems to apply to me. What would I say to him?"

"Morrigan said she hasn't told him anything about that night," Naia said. "I don't imagine she would thank you, if you told Kieran your part in it."

"Indeed, that was the bargain. Create his life, save yours in the process, and never seek out her or the child," Zev said simply, with no bitterness. "It is a bargain I am content with. Even if Morrigan would permit such a thing I would make a poor father. And yet—yet I cannot help but wonder about the boy."

"Maybe those aren't the only two options," Naia suggested. "Be his father or never meet him, I mean. And—if you do think it's something you might want, you may not get a chance like this again. It took us eleven years to wind up in the same place as Morrigan once more."

"You are wise as always, my Warden," Zev said, sliding his arm around her waist. "I—I will think on it further." His chest rose and fell in a silent sigh. "You said he seems well? Happy?"

"Yes. And … he's _normal_. I mean, he's a little odd, formal manners, but he's not at all what I would have expected. As strange as it sounds, I think Morrigan has been a good mother. She is clearly proud of the boy, and protective of him."

"I am glad for him, then. And for her." Zevran turned his head to look at Naia. "I have never regretted the choice I made that night. But I will admit, knowing the boy is well would put some part of me at ease."

"I felt the same way after I met him," Naia admitted.

They lay back in bed after that, Naia's head resting on Zev's chest, his arm coiled around her shoulders. His heartbeat was strong and solid under her ear, and Naia took comfort in that—but Alistair was not the only reason she wanted to find a cure for the Taint.

 _I'm glad Kieran isn't what I feared he might be. But I want to recover the other price you paid for my life, Zev. I want to know the Calling will never come for you._

* * *

"That. Was. _Incredible_!"

Cullen could hear The Iron Bull from all the way across camp. He was within a paragraph of finishing his report, but he put it down immediately and began walking towards the source of the shout. He'd known it would be difficult to oversee troop movements and read updates on the Inquisition's progress while Cecily faced a dragon, but knowing that in advance didn't make it any easier to endure when it happened. He took immediate heart at the jocular sound of Bull's voice; surely he wouldn't be that happy if anything terrible had happened?

"Maker's breath!" he burst out when he saw Cecily's small party.

The Iron Bull was grinning like a maniac. He also sported a large, ugly-looking burn across his right shoulder and down his back. Blackwall's beard had lost a good inch and his overlong hair was singed and crinkled; the parts of his face that had not been covered by his helmet looked uncomfortably red, and one of his sleeves had been scorched black. Sera was covered in mud—although to be fair, that might not have been the dragon's fault.

Frantically, his eyes sought Cecily. She, of course, was hovering anxiously behind Bull, her eyes focused on the burn. "We need to get you to the healer," she insisted. She looked uninjured, although it was difficult to tell, since Bull's bulk stood between them.

"Bah. It's just a little kiss. We killed a _dragon_ , boss! Come _on_! Show some excitement!"

"Dorian is going to have my head if I return you to Skyhold with half the skin on your back gone," she said crisply. "Healer. Now."

The Iron Bull met Cullen's eye and gave him a long-suffering look. Cullen frowned at him. "You'll find no support from me. You heard the Inquisitor." The mercenary muttered something in Qunari and headed for the healer's tent.

Finally, Cullen got a good look at the Inquisitor.

Her legs were coated with mud from foot to thigh, a fine dusting of soot covered her hair and shoulders, and there was a deep red-and-black burn on the back of her right hand. Her overcoat, apparently, had gotten the worst of it; a large chunk of the back was burned clean away, leaving only a curling black edge that shed flakes of ash in her wake as she walked.

She caught his gaze and grimaced in apology. "As it turns out, dragons breathe fire."

"I think I'd heard that, yes," Cullen said dryly.

* * *

He heard the full story roughly an hour later, mostly from a now-healed Iron Bull, with occasional additions and pantomime from Sera. Well, it was less a story and more a string of enthusiastic adjectives. Apparently Qunari held dragons in high regard, and Bull was exultant at having faced and killed one in combat.

"But the _boss_! She just takes one look at that thing and starts in with the ice spells. Froze the beast's foot near through, brought it to its knees," Bull chortled. "Your lady's got a strategic mind, Commander."

A warm feeling of pride spread in Cullen's chest. "Do I want to know how she managed to burn off half her coat?"

"Probably not," Blackwall said.

"Dodging under its breath to save this idiot," Sera said simultaneously, pointing to Bull.

"I had things under control!" Bull protested.

"Sure ya did," the elf said, rolling her eyes.

"It was a calculated risk," Blackwall said, watching Cullen closely. "She is not reckless, have no fear."

"Maker's breath, what are you telling him?" Cecily asked as she emerged from the healer's tent. The burns were gone, as was the now-ruined coat, and she had clearly bathed; her hair was darker from the water and was clinging to her neck in damp, appealing curls. Cullen swallowed a bit, then flushed when he heard Bull chuckle under his breath.

"The truth, I expect," he told her. "You're all right?"

She nodded. "It was—it was like fighting pure magic, Cullen. I'm almost sorry we had to kill it."

"Ugh. You spend too much time with Solas," Sera groaned. "It tried to get us dead, we got it dead instead. Good day, end of story."

"I have to agree with Sera. If it was the dragon or you, I think you made the right decision," he said, rising from his seat. "I—I imagine you're tired."

She caught his meaning immediately. "We still have several hours of daylight, Commander—will that be time enough to make your trip?"

Bull muttered something that Cullen pretended not to hear. "Yes, Inquisitor, it's not far."

* * *

His lake was much as he remembered it—cool, deep green with trees and lilypads, a bit foggy, and blissfully quiet. Cecily beamed when she took it in, and her smile only warmed when he told her about this place, what it had meant to him growing up.

He remembered the coin his brother had given him, the one that had seen him through Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall and Haven and the half dozen other times he probably should have been killed. "Humor me," he said impulsively, holding it out to her. "We don't know what you will face before the end. It can't hurt."

She brought her fingers to rest against its worn silver face, then seemed to change her mind. "I—I think I want you to keep it," she said, curling his fingers around the coin. "I couldn't bear it if _your_ luck ran out."

"Neither could I," he said, tucking the token back into his pocket. "Especially now that I have some."

As if to confirm his good luck, she leaned forward and kissed him, her lips warm. This was familiar, now, as was what came next—her hands pressed against his back, her body molding into his.

They had not gone much beyond this, beyond kissing and a few intimate caresses. He wanted this woman, desperately, and part of him was screaming in frustration at his caution, at the way he always stopped short of asking her to spend the night. But taking her into his bed could mean letting her see the dreams—even a sound sleeper would wake during the worst of them, he suspected. And the idea of making love to her and then leaving her to sleep alone seemed even worse. And then there would be the inevitable gossip when one of them was seen leaving the other's room in the morning, and then …

"Cullen?"

He realized that he had stopped kissing her, that his hands had dropped to her waist and he was resting his forehead against hers, breathing sharply. "I … _Cecy_. I'm sorry."

Lyrium withdrawal spread through him like a wildfire.

He squeezed his eyes closed tightly, as if that might hold back the pain. He should have expected this; his last attack had been weeks ago, and it was too much to hope that he would never have another. But of _course_ it came upon him now. _It's no more than I deserve for boasting about my good luck_ , he thought wildly.

Cecily put her hand at the side of his face. "What do you need?"

He gritted his teeth and tried not to shake too visibly. "I … I don't know. I don't know how long this will last."

Cecily's hands found his and she began pulling him to the shore, away from the now-dangerous water. When they stepped off the dock he sat heavily on the ground and pulled his knees to his chest, resting his head on them, trying to breathe, trying to remember where he was. _Honnleath. My lake. Not Lake Calenhad. Nothing like Lake Calenhad._

"Do you want to be alone?" Cecily asked, kneeling beside him. He forced his eyes open, forced himself to focus on her face. "I can come back in a bit, or take you back to camp if you're well enough to ride. Or we can stay here. Anything you need." Her voice was calm, but the little line between her eyebrows gave her away.

 _She should go. She shouldn't have to share this._

"Please stay," he whispered.

* * *

An hour later—or maybe two or three, it was hard to tell in this densely thicketed area—the stabbing pain had subsided, leaving only the dull afterache that Cullen knew would plague him for up to a day afterwards.

They were sitting together under a tree, with Cecily's back against the trunk and his back against her chest, her smaller frame supporting his larger one surprisingly well. Her arms were wrapped around him, her legs rested on either side of his, and her cheek was nestled against his hair. It did not lessen the pain, exactly. But it was comforting nonetheless.

Cullen reached up his hand to squeeze hers. "It's over, I think. The worst of it anyway. I'm so sorry," he whispered.

"Cullen Rutherford, if you apologize again I swear I will hit you," she told him. "Has it been bad, of late? You've seemed better."

"I have been better," he assured her, wishing his voice didn't sound so shaky. "Much better. This is the first time in weeks that this has happened. The Maker certainly has a vicious sense of timing, doesn't He? I'm …"

Cecily's arms tightened around him. " _It's all right_."

He relaxed back into her, breathing through the tightness in his chest, the slight shake in his limbs. "It helps that you're here. It's slightly embarrassing, but it helps," he joked weakly.

Cecily ran a hand over his hair. "When I first arrived at the Circle I used to take books back to my room—I didn't realize they weren't ours to take out of the library," she said, clearly beginning a story.

"Then one of the Enchanters gathered all of the apprentices together and gave us a scathing lecture on taking care of the Circle's knowledge. He vowed we would all be scrubbing floors for a month if the books weren't returned. I didn't want anyone to know I was responsible, so I waited until after curfew and put all of the books in a sack I made from my bedsheets. I was going to sneak them back into the library without anyone ever being the wiser.

"Well. I didn't know how to tie a proper knot, so as soon as I reached the top of the stairs the sack fell apart. Every apprentice in the Circle came running out to see what the noise was. They found me scrambling to shove twenty books back into my bedsheet."

Cullen laughed at the image—the laugh felt rusty in his aching chest, but nice. "So you were caught?"

"In fact, some of the other apprentices helped me sneak the books back to the library. Most of them thought I was a bit of a dolt, and I was teased about it for months afterwards, but they did help me, and after that I actually made some friends." She squeezed his hand. "A bit of embarrassment isn't the worst thing in the world."

Cullen closed his eyes, breathed in the smell of the lake, the feeling of her arms around him. "I think I agree."


	28. Chapter 28

Dorian was starting to get the feeling that people were watching him.

With the Inquisitor, her Commander, and Bull all gone to the Hinterlands, Dorian had rather more time on his hands than usual and no one to play chess with. He found himself visiting parts of Skyhold that he did not normally frequent, and he noticed that he seemed to be the object of more attention than he would have expected. Soldiers turned their heads when he passed; some actually _pointed_. Even a few pilgrims seemed to stop to stare when they saw him. Dorian was not a fool—he knew that a Tevinter mage would be the subject of some curiosity in the South. But the stares and quiet whispers seemed excessive even by those standards, and he was certain that some of the attention was new.

Finally he cornered Varric, Skyhold's most attentive gossip-follower. "Is there some reason that everyone is looking at me as though I'd been caught doing something obscene on the floor of the chapel?" he demanded.

Normally Varric would have been delighted to share something that he knew and Dorian didn't. In this instance, the dwarf grimaced and was silent. "Tell me, Varric."

"You're not going to like this, Sparkler," he warned.

Varric was right. He didn't.

Dorian confined himself to the Inquisition's paltry library for several days after his conversation with Varric. He knew he was sulking but did not particularly care. It was absolutely, _infuriatingly_ unfair that in Tevinter he was a pariah for preferring men, while in the South he was now a pariah for allegedly bedding the wrong woman. And that wasn't even the worst rumor! No, the worst was the one about blood magic. Or maybe the one about him secretly being an agent of the Magesterium sent to entice the Herald into pledging the Inquisition to Tevinter.

He should have expected this, he supposed. And the most obnoxious part about it was, part of him couldn't blame the Inquisition's people for looking at him with suspicion. Hadn't he come from Tevinter because of his disgust with all that was wrong in his homeland? Some of the South's ideas about Tevinter were ridiculous, of course, but there was more truth in the worst of the rumors than he would have liked.

Still, he'd sweat and bled and stomped up and down the most ghastly places in Thedas on behalf of the Inquisition. He'd _helped_ , damn it. Some part of him, some silly, childish part, had hoped they might notice.

Almost out of spite, he waited in the courtyard for Cecily and her team when they were spotted returning from the Hinterlands. He noticed almost immediately that the skin on Bull's back was too smooth and puffed and new—he'd been healed, but the injury had been serious. _Idiot_ _man_ , Dorian thought, torn between annoyance and worry. The Commander, too, looked a bit paler than he should, and the careful way Cecily was watching him told Dorian that Cullen was not entirely well.

Behind them, a group of the Inquisition's soldiers bore a dragon's skull in a cart.

"Well. It looks like you had an exciting trip," Dorian said, keeping his tone light.

The Iron Bull laughed and gave him a grin that promised all sorts of _very_ interesting things later. "Next time there's a dragon, you've got to come too," he said, clapping Dorian on the back. "There's nothing like it. _Dragons_!"

Cecily rolled her eyes fondly. "Prepare yourself. He's been like that ever since we set eyes on the creature."

Dorian smiled back at her—and immediately caught two Inquisition soldiers exchanging a knowing look. He cursed his stupid pride for making him come down here and greet everyone in full view of all Skyhold. "Inquisitor," he said formally, forcing the smile from his face. "When you have a moment, there's something you probably ought to know."

Her brows drew together at his serious tone. "Of course. Let me get rid of my gear. I'll meet you up in the library."

* * *

It was not long before Dorian heard soft footsteps ascending the stairs to the library—but when he turned, they did not belong to Cecily. It was Mother Giselle.

"May I claim a moment of your time?" the priestess asked, her soft Orlesian accent laced with steel.

"Revered Mother. What may I do for you?" he asked, dread filling him.

The priestess folded her hands in front of her and looked at him very seriously. "I am here to speak with you about the Inquisitor."

"What about her?" Dorian asked. _As if I couldn't guess_. He decided to feign confusion. "Is she all right?"

Giselle inclined her head. "Yes, of course. But I have come to you because that may not be the case for long, if you remain such a visible presence at her side."

A heavy lump settled in Dorian's chest. It was no different than he expected, and yet. And yet. "I see. What is your concern, exactly, Revered Mother?"

Mother Giselle began to speak, but before she could, a new voice cut in. "I would be interested in this as well."

Dorian turned. Cecily was climbing the stairs to the library. She had heard the entire exchange.

"Inquisitor." Mother Giselle struggled to speak for a moment. "I … This man is of Tevinter. The rumors alone …" she trailed off.

"Rumors. And what, exactly, do these rumors say?" Cecily asked, crossing her arms.

"I could not repeat such things to you, my lady Inquisitor," Mother Giselle said uncomfortably.

The Inquisitor turned to him. "Dorian, do _you_ have any idea what this is about?"

"Oh, the usual nonsense," he said, feigning indifference—badly. "I'm teaching you blood magic, I'm here to turn the Inquisition into an arm of the Tevinter Chantry. Oh, also, we're intimate and I'm whispering all sorts of evil ideas into your ear as pillow talk. Nothing all that inventive, I'm afraid."

Mother Giselle looked a bit appalled at his phrasing, but said, "I am afraid those are the rumors, my Lady Inquisitor. You must understand how this man's presence at your side shakes the people's good opinion of you."

Cecily stood very still for a moment.

"Mother Giselle, I have deep respect for you, and I am certain you mean well," she said in her most detached voice, the one she used when pronouncing judgment from the Skyhold throne. "But you may tell those concerned that these rumors are groundless. Dorian is my friend. He has saved my life more than once. And therefore, I do not care what gossip people choose to spread about him, or about me. His presence at the Inquisition is not up for debate. He has done more for us than all of the rumor-mongers put together." By this point, the cool Inquisitor voice had given way to something much more heated. "I do not want to hear about this again."

Mother Giselle inclined her head stiffly. "I have offended. I apologize. If you feel the man is without ulterior motive, I suppose there is nothing further to be discussed. I must beg forgiveness of you both." And with that, she walked away.

Cecily gaped after her. Then she turned to Dorian, her face pale and eyes wide. Suddenly, two spots of color flared on her cheeks and she burst out, "If anyone ever says anything to you about this again you have my permission to set them on fire!" She began pacing furiously between Dorian and the bookshelves. "How _dare_ they? How dare they spread such vile talk as if they know the first thing about you!"

Dorian tried to remember if he'd ever seen the Inquisitor lose her temper before. He didn't think so. The fact that she'd done so over him was … rather astonishing. "It's quite all right, Cecily," he said. Then he shook his head. "No, that's a lie. These rumors bother me as well. But I suppose it's inevitable that the dread Tevinter magister hovering around the Inquisitor will become the object of gossip."

"You're not a magister, you're an altus," Cecily corrected, managing a wobbling smile.

In spite of his dark mood, Dorian smiled back. "So you do listen to me! How sweet of you. As for the rumors that we're intimate, that's your own fault, really. If you and the Commander would just be a bit more indiscreet, well, no one who's met the man would doubt that he'd run me through if he thought I had evil plans for you."

"I rather think it's _your_ fault for being so handsome," Cecily shot back. "They can't imagine how I could control myself around you."

Dorian threw his head back and laughed. "Indeed, I don't know how you manage," he said. "Come on. I'm going to get drunk. It's been that kind of a day. That kind of a week, really."

"What if you and The Iron Bull were less discreet? That might help," Cecily suggested jokingly, falling into step with him as he moved towards the stairs.

Dorian paused for a moment and caught her arm. "Cecily. I want you to know … I have precious few friends. But I count you among them. Perhaps first among them. And I will stand at your side against Corypheus, or my countrymen, or spurious rumors, for as long as you'll have me."

Cecily gave him a sisterly hug around the shoulders. "Thank you, Dorian. I will try not to take on anything worse than Corypheus."

"I would appreciate that. Oh, and try not to die. I _would_ notice you were gone."

* * *

Zevran stood in the Skyhold courtyard and watched Morrigan for a long time, trying to decide whether or not he would approach her.

The years had been very good to the sorceress; her features had lost the roundness of youth, but were no less beautiful, and her yellow eyes were still captivating. Her expression was still cool, superior, amused at the pettiness of those around her, but there was a maturity about her now—not a girl assuming she knew more than everyone else, but a woman who did know more than most and was wise enough to realize it. She seemed both more and less frightening.

Morrigan seemed to sense his gaze; she turned, met his eyes, raised her brow—and did nothing. The choice, apparently, would have to be his.

Before he could lose his courage, he called out, "Lady Morrigan. A word, if I may?"

"I suppose I cannot stop you," she replied evenly. "I had wondered if you might wish to speak with me, despite our bargain."

"In fairness, my dear Morrigan, I did _not_ seek you out. We simply happened to be in the same castle at the same time, for entirely different reasons." He smiled at her. "Terribly strange how these things happen."

"Do get to the point," Morrigan sighed. "I find the years have given me no greater tolerance for your prattle."

"Very well." Zevran took a breath. "I would like to meet the boy, if you will permit it. I shall tell him nothing of my—well, I shall tell him nothing, save that I knew his mother during the Blight."

For a moment he thought Morrigan would refuse, but after a pause she jerked her head in something like a nod and said, "Very well. Follow me."

She led him through Skyhold's audience chamber and down a hallway at the side, up to a small set of rooms that she apparently occupied. A young boy was seated at a desk in front of their window, his eyes focused outside, daydreaming, as a large book sat before him.

"Mother!" he said, quickly dropping his eyes and turning a page.

"You may abandon your book for now, little man," the Witch of the Wilds said with unexpected tenderness. "I have brought someone who wishes to meet you."

Kieran sighed with relief and pushed back from the desk, then moved to join them. He bore more than a passing resemblance to Morrigan, but Zevran could see that his ears were just a bit sharper than they might have been with two human parents.

"Kieran, this is … a friend of the Hero of Ferelden's," Morrigan said. "Someone I knew long ago, before you were born."

"My name is Zevran Arainai," Zev said, making the boy a little bow. "A pleasure, Kieran."

Kieran looked up at him, curious and unafraid—the kind of innocent expression that had been beaten out of Zev long before he'd reached Kieran's age. "You know my mother too?"

"I do indeed. We fought together during the Blight."

"Was it scary?" the boy asked. "Ancient things awoke during that Blight. I dream about them, sometimes."

Morrigan's eyes widened in alarm, but Zevran had expected this. Well, perhaps not references to dreams about ancient things, specifically, but the boy could hardly carry an Archdemon's soul and not have something mystical about him. "It was, at times," Zevran admitted. "But it was not always so terrible. Some of it was actually quite fascinating."

"I think those things _would_ be interesting. I wish _I_ could see them—here, for real, not in dreams," the boy sighed wistfully.

"I am certain you will see many interesting things in your life," Zevran said, trying to keep the knowing wryness from his voice. _As if it could be helped, given your heritage._ "Kieran. I wish you to know that, should you ever need help for any reason, Naia and I will be most glad to aid you. We may be difficult to find, sometimes, but Sister Leliana and Warden-Commander Howe will usually know how to contact us."

The boy seemed a bit puzzled at this, but all he said was, "Thank you."

Morrigan's yellow eyes glowed; Zevran thought she was unhappy, until she echoed, "Yes. Thank you. That is … most kind."

Naia was waiting for him in the garden.

"Well?" she asked anxiously, standing as he approached.

Zevran took her hands. "He is a strange child, as you said. But—but I am glad I have met him. Even with such a formidable mother, it cannot hurt for the boy to know that there are others who would help him, if he needed it."

He laughed a bit. "It is odd, is it not, that I sired a child in spite of the Taint, when there is so much worry over Alistair doing so?"

Their eyes met, widening in realization.

"Andraste's blood. I'm an idiot!" Naia said, clapping her hand to her forehead. "How could I not think to ask Morrigan?"

* * *

Ten minutes later, Naia was standing in front of the sorceress, explaining what she hoped to do. "You know more about the Taint, and the Blights, than most Wardens," she finished, hoping a little flattery might help. "Do you know anything that might help us replicate what happened to Fiona?"

Morrigan's yellow eyes glittered, amused; she had caught the clumsy flattery, but was not offended by it. "I do not know how to prevent the Calling, or cleanse the Taint itself," she began. "Perhaps I could if I were to study the Blight in greater detail, but with the knowledge I now possess—no. I know of nothing that would save your life, or Zevran's, or Alistair's. I am sorry."

It had been too much to hope for, Naia knew, but she didn't bother to pretend she hadn't hoped just a little. "What about your ritual?" she asked. "You were certain it would result in a child, even with a Warden father. Is there anything in it that could help Alistair with an heir?"

Morrigan frowned thoughtfully. "Most aspects of the ritual, of course, were designed to draw the Old God's soul. And the ritual I had would only have worked on a recently-made Warden. But … yes. I believe I may be able to help you." She arched an eyebrow at Naia. "If I tell you what I know, and write it down so that another mage could learn it, will this clear the debt between us? Or—might you forgive my debt, and instead count the knowledge as a gift from a friend?"

Naia looked down and chuckled. "You make a strange sort of friend, Morrigan." She raised her eyes and met Morrigan's gaze. "But—yes. I would consider it a gift, and myself your friend."

"Then I thank you." The Witch of the Wilds looked at Naia with something close to regret. "Perhaps this time I will be a better one."


	29. Chapter 29

Leliana had known that Naia and Zevran would not remain at Skyhold, but some part of her was still wistful when the elves told her that they were headed to Denerim.

"No more vanishing acts. I promise," Naia said, giving her a warm hug outside the stables the morning of her departure. "From now on we'll always leave you a way to contact us." She stepped back and held Leliana's shoulders. "But I am not leading any Inquisitions, present or future. I think you've done well with Lady Trevelyan, so try to keep her alive."

"I kept _you_ alive during the Blight, did I not?" Leliana teased. "With some help, of course," she added, nodding at Zevran.

"Why thank you, my dear Leliana," he said. "It has been a pleasure, as always."

When Leliana turned back to Naia, the Warden had pulled a folded letter out of her saddlebag. "Before we go, I need a favor," she said, slightly apologetically. "In six months, if something happens to me—which it won't," she said quickly when she saw Leliana's expression. "But _if_ anything happens I need you to give this to Alistair." She handed the spymaster the letter. "Six months. No sooner. And don't read it."

Leliana turned the paper over in her hands. It had been a long time since anyone had trusted her not to open a letter. "I will keep it safe."

Naia grinned. "Thank you. I promised I'd give someone a chance to get something done before I shared what's in there, but I know Alistair. If I give _him_ this letter to keep it will worry him ragged until the day he can open it."

Impulsively, Leliana stepped forward and hugged the Hero of Ferelden again. "I will miss you. I—you remind me of the person I wish to be."

"You will find your way back," Naia said quietly, and with complete certainty.

* * *

"My Lady Inquisitor. Might I have a word?"

Cecily tried to keep her expression serene as she turned towards Mother Giselle. She knew the woman had only acted from concern, and she knew that the Revered Mother certainly had not been the source of the gossip, but the way Dorian had looked when he'd been forced to repeat those rumors—that was hard to forget. "Of course, Mother Giselle," she said, only a bit coldly. "What may I do for you?"

The Revered Mother looked deeply uncomfortable. "It is good of you to speak with me. I … First, let me say that I know how this will seem, given our previous conversation about the Tevinter. But I have been in contact with his family. House Pavus, out of Qarinus. Are you familiar with them?"

"Only from what Dorian has told me," Cecily said. She knew that Dorian was not on good terms with his parents, but kept that to herself; she doubted Dorian wanted her discussing his family problems with the Revered Mother.

"Do you know much of his … situation?"

Cecily kept her face politely curious. When she said nothing, Mother Giselle continued. "The family sent me a letter describing an estrangement from their son and begging for my aid. They wish to arrange a meeting, quietly, without telling him. They fear it is the only way he will come. They will send a retainer to meet him at Redcliffe Tavern, and take him from there to see his family."

Cecily's mouth dropped open. She tried to think of a kind way to say what came next. "Mother Giselle, I fear you may have been misled," she said gently. "A letter from Qarinus, seeking help with tricking one of the Inquisition's key members into a secret meeting? It is almost certainly a Venatori trap."

"This had occurred to me, yes," Mother Giselle said. "Which is why I put it in your hands, Inquisitor. But I believe it is what it seems. A plea from parents who are worried about their son, who wish to understand why he left them and sought out what seems to them a strange cause." She handed Cecily a letter bearing a heavy wax seal. "I would speak to the young man myself, but—well, he does not care for me." Her expression admitted that perhaps he had cause.

Cecily frowned down at the letter. "I will take this under advisement. Thank you, Mother Giselle."

As the Revered Mother walked away, Cecily ran her fingers over the heavy parchment of the letter; it felt weighty, expensive, in accordance with what little she knew of Dorian's family. She wondered if she should take this to Leliana, but—no. _I'll show this to Dorian first. It's his family, after all. And if it's a trap, perhaps he'll know._

* * *

"'I know my son?' What my father knows of me would barely fill a thimble!"

Dorian was as agitated as Cecily had ever seen him, his handsome face tight with stress, his mouth set in anger. "This is so typical. I'm willing to bet this 'retainer' is a henchman, hired to knock me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter." He shook the letter in disgust. "All this talk of how he misses me, how confused they all are by my absence. He knows perfectly well why I left!"

"Why _did_ you leave?" Cecily asked.

"They don't care for my choices, nor I for theirs," Dorian said. His tone did not invite further questioning.

"Perhaps it's not from your father at all, then. It could be a trap," she suggested. "In fact, that was rather my first assumption."

Dorian shook his head. "It looks like my father's handwriting. And I wouldn't put it past the man to arrange some sort of elaborate scheme to get me back to Tevinter—although once I would have said he would never stoop so low." He sighed. "I—thank you for bringing this to me. And for not knocking me over the head yourself so you could drag me to Redcliffe without me ever being the wiser, as Mother Giselle would have had you do." He let out a harsh little chortle. "I wonder how much they're paying this 'retainer' to wait around on the chance I show up?"

"If you want to go, say the word," Cecily said. "And if not—well, that retainer will doubtless grow quite wealthy waiting."

He sighed. "I will think on it." His dark eyes glinted. "Although I must admit that I am curious to see who they sent."

* * *

It sounded so bloody easy in his head, Cullen reflected as he walked into his office two days after his return to Skyhold. A short sentence, simple. And, he hoped, not unexpected. But he wanted it to be _right_. Even if he wasn't entirely sure what _right_ would look like. Should he tell her what she meant to him, how much he admired her courage and her kindness and her mind? Tell her how beautiful she was? Or simply kiss her and then ask, _Cecily, will you spend the night with me?_ Perhaps the last option would be best, given his talent for fumbling what he meant to say when it came to these things.

He thought he would have to fight to focus on his work that day. The report at the top of his pile, however, immediately drew his full attention.

 _Commander—Our efforts have borne fruit. Red Templars have been spotted escorting the supplies you told us to watch for. See the enclosed maps and reports from our patrols. Shall we prepare a squadron?_

After he had read the reports, and examined the maps, and made very, very sure, Cullen lowered the papers and drew a shallow, shuddering breath. The Inquisition had found Samson—and the Inquisitor would have to go to face him.

He could not always be at her side. But he could be there for this.


	30. Chapter 30

**Kirkwall, 9:31 Dragon**

Every Templar and mage in the Gallows bore witness Samson's sentencing. Meredith made sure of that. Even Maddox, now bearing a Tranquil's brand and eerie calm gaze, was there to watch as the Knight-Commander pronounced Samson stripped of his rank and cast out of the Templar order.

"This isn't justice!" Samson hissed, although there was no surprise in his voice.

The Knight-Commander gave him a severe look, tinged with something like regret, or maybe just disappointment. "You allowed yourself to be corrupted, to run illegal errands for one of our charges. We cannot allow such dealings in the Order."

"They were _letters_! Love letters, that's all!" the ex-Templar cried, looking to his former brothers and sisters for support.

Cullen was the only one who would meet his gaze. He was not unsympathetic—he knew how easy it was to forget one's duty, to pity a mage and extend them favors. But Samson had not seen what he had. "The rules are in place for a reason," he said, trying to make his voice even. "The dangers are too great to let down our guard."

The look Samson gave Cullen was half scornful, half pitying. "I don't know what happened to you in Ferelden, Rutherford, but you're a damned fool if you think this serves our cause, serves the Order." He pointed an angry finger at Maddox. "Forget me. Look at him, and then look me in the eye and tell me he deserves to live like that over a few soft words on a piece of paper!"

Cullen kept his eyes on Samson's. "You knew what you were doing was wrong, as did he. Isn't that right, Maddox?"

"I broke the Circle's rules," Maddox agreed placidly.

"Be Meredith's lap dog, then," Samson snarled. "Maker take all you cowards!"

"You have one hour to collect your personal belongings and leave the Gallows," Meredith said coldly. "One hour, no more. And do not attempt to take anything that belongs to the Order. That includes lyrium—and you will be searched."

For the first time, Samson's expression showed fear.

* * *

 **Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon**

"Tell me more about Samson."

Cullen could not think of a topic he wanted less to discuss with Cecily. The man their soldiers had encountered at Haven had fought like a demon—no, more dangerous than that. He had been impervious to their blows, faster than they thought possible, and strong enough to cleave right through the Inquisition's best armor. The idea of the Inquisitor facing him down made him sick.

But it was more than that. "Samson was … someone I failed," he admitted.

She listened patiently as he explained who Samson had been, and who Maddox was. As he had expected, her features filled with horror when he told her about the crime that had led to their fates. "Love letters? Meredith made a mage Tranquil over _letters_?"

"She wielded the brand for petty offenses," Cullen said unsteadily. "And I … I allowed it. Or, at least, did nothing to stop it." His chest tightened with shame. "I was so paranoid about blood magic after what happened in Ferelden—but that is no excuse."

He took a breath, then continued. "Samson had been a good man, a good Templar, but the lyrium addiction made him desperate. He became a fixture of Kirkwall's underworld. There was no task he would not take on for a bit of lyrium dust."

"It says something of Samson that he would seek out Maddox in the chaos in Kirkwall," Cecily said after a long pause. "Perhaps … perhaps there is still something left of the man he once was."

"Perhaps," Cullen agreed heavily. "Although I would not like to rely on that. He may simply have been shrewd enough to recognize an extraordinary resource. Whatever he once was, he joined Corypheus willingly. And he is _dangerous_ , Cecy. I presume you've read my instructions to the men on engaging him in battle."

She nodded. "I will reiterate the order when we arrive. No one is to attempt to fight Samson alone."

Cullen looked at her, wondering how she would react to this next part. "We have soldiers ready to escort you to the stronghold immediately. And I plan to accompany you."

"You do know that order applies to our Commander as well, I presume?" she said—lightly, but Cullen could hear the tension in her voice. "Dagna still has not found a way to break the red lyrium armor."

"All the more reason for me to go," Cullen said. "I would sleep better knowing I would be at your side, should you face him."

She looked as if she wanted to argue. He could see it in her eyes, see her thinking, _I would sleep better knowing you would be safe in Skyhold_. He braced himself for an argument—but she simply nodded instead. "Very well. We'll depart at your leave, Commander."

Then she reached out her hand for his, stepped close, and gave him a brief, fierce kiss. "But for the Maker's sake, promise me you'll be careful."

He kissed her back. "I'll be exactly as careful as you are."

"I should probably find that more reassuring than I do," she said wryly.


	31. Chapter 31

**Lowtown, 9:32 Dragon**

One of the strangest things about lyrium withdrawal was the way it made terms like _hot_ or _cold_ seem meaningless. During an attack—like the one he had just come through—Samson could veer between feeling as if his skin had turned to ice and feeling as if his blood might actually boil inside him from the heat. Now that the attack had subsided, the Kirkwall air felt temperate against his skin, but what did he know anymore? He took a sip of water from his wineskin—he wasn't about to spend coin on alcohol when it might go to lyrium—and tried to still the shaking in his limbs.

Footsteps approached his corner in Lowtown. Samson briefly hoped that it might be someone with a job—one that would pay this time—but instead, it was the Ferelden mercenary from the day before, the one looking for Vincento's son. _Hawke. That was her name._

"Ah. You again. Any luck finding the boy?" he asked, not out of any real interest.

"Indeed. I found Feynriel and sent him—well, to some friends." The mercenary's voice was friendly, even charming, but Samson could feel an edge in it. "So I thought I'd come by and let you know. I knew an upstanding, caring man like yourself would wish to know that he was well."

He'd have known that for sarcasm even without the biting tone. _As if I don't know what I am._ "Spit it out, woman," he growled. "I'm not in the mood for games."

Hawke gave him a cool, appraising look. "Very well. Did you know that the people you sent him to were slavers?"

Samson's last dose of lyrium had been days ago, too long for comfort—but not so long that he had lost his abilities. His skin prickled and he could see the coils of magic rising off this woman as she gathered her power close, ready for a fight. _Apostate_. A powerful one at that, unless he missed his guess.

"Of course not," he said scornfully, steeling himself to shatter her magic if she tried anything. "Although the boy should have been more suspicious of anyone offering to take him out of Kirkwall for free."

Hawke's hand lashed out and grabbed the front of his tunic. Samson hadn't been expecting a physical attack from a mage and he stumbled, startled.

" _You_ should have been more suspicious," she hissed. "Feynriel's just a child. He's not experienced enough to know that the world isn't out to do him any favors. You, on the other hand, are. I think you knew damn well what your Captain was—you just chose not to ask the questions that might confirm it, didn't you?" She gave him a hard shake and then shoved him back. "And then you sent Feynriel straight into his grasp."

"Well, you saved the boy. So what's the issue?" Samson grumbled, adjusting his clothes.

"Feynriel's alive, but the girl you sent to them is dead," Hawke said coldly. "So I'm here to give you fair warning. The next time you put desperate people in a slaver's hands, I'm coming back for you." She smiled unpleasantly. "And it won't be with an invitation to a party."

"Why not just kill me now?" Samson called as she walked away.

She glanced back at him, amused contempt written on every line of her face. "You're too pathetic to kill at the moment. It would be like stepping on a lyrium-addicted rat. Not really worth the mess."

Samson glowered at the mercenary as she disappeared into the Lowtown night. _I can't help people leave the city for free—I'd never get paid again. Wasn't my fault the only people willing to take the boy out of Kirkwall were slavers. I had no reason to think the Captain was working for Tevinter._

 _But she's right. Some part of me knew._

 _Andraste's blood. What have I become?_

* * *

 **Kirkwall, 9:37 Dragon**

Samson had thought the aftermath of the Qunari attack bad, but the Qunari were amateurs at destruction compared to mages and Templars. The battles that had followed the conflict in the Gallows had shattered many areas of Kirkwall—and, of course, the damage was worst in Lowtown, leaving many of the city's poor homeless and displaced. Makeshift tents were set up amidst the rubble; fights broke out regularly over supplies and space.

Samson kept his head down and minded his own affairs. Business was good at the moment; many of the mages who had escaped the Gallows sought him out for aid in leaving Kirkwall for good. Some of his old contacts were now missing, but new ones had cropped up—the mage underground had quickly reorganized to evacuate their people from the city. Many of the mages were even paying him in lyrium that they'd snuck from the Circle when they escaped. He supposed he would have to leave Kirkwall eventually, but so long as the lyrium supply was so generous he had good reason to remain.

He had moved his base of operations out to the docks, which had seen less fighting and had fewer refugees than Lowtown. Things were slow, today, but the supply of lyrium that he kept strapped beneath his clothes would keep him for a while, and he was not worried. Still, he was glad when the door to his stolen office pushed open—until he recognized the battered, filthy man who had pushed it open.

"Hello, Samson."

"Maddox!" Samson rose to his feet, stunned.

"I heard I could find you here." The Tranquil held out a small paper packet. "I have lyrium dust. Not very much, but some. If you would trade me coin for it, perhaps I could buy food. I am very hungry."

The gauntness of his face told Samson that this was an understatement. There was also an ugly bruise on Maddox's cheek and a gash down his arm, and he could guess where they had come from. Kirkwall was angry, and most Kirkwallers would see Maddox's robes and assume _mage_ , not realizing that he was Tranquil, that he had no magic and could not fight back. He looked nothing like the eager, naïve young man who had begged Samson for help in reaching his sweetheart.

Samson felt his jaw tighten. _If only I'd said no when he asked me to carry those damned letters._

"Come with me," the former Templar said roughly, accepting the little packet. "I've got some food, and a place where you can sleep. You can't be out here alone."

* * *

 **Temple of Dumat, 9:41 Dragon**

"Hello, Inquisitor."

Cecily knew who this man must be even before Cullen said, "It's Maddox, Samson's Tranquil. Something's wrong. I'll send for the healers."

"That would be a waste, Knight-Captain Cullen," Maddox said, seeming … almost pleased. "I drank my entire supply of blightcap essence. It won't be long now."

Cecily's chest tightened. "We wouldn't have hurt you," she said, as if it made any difference now. "We just wanted to ask you some questions, Maddox."

"Yes," he said calmly. "That is what I could not allow. I destroyed the camp with fire. We all agreed it was best. Our deaths ensured Samson had time to escape."

"You threw your lives away—for _Samson_? Why?" Cullen growled.

"He saved me even before he needed me," Maddox said. "He gave me purpose again. I … wanted to help …"

And then his eyes closed.

Cecily blinked back sudden tears. _Love letters. That's what brought him this fate. Love letters._ She looked over at Cullen; her Commander was shaking his head, his jaw clenched, regret and guilt and anger mixing on his face.

"We should check the camp," he said, his voice low and unsteady. "There may still be something here Dagna can use."

* * *

Cecily could not bear the idea of leaving Maddox in that red-lyrium-addled wreck; the Inquisition's soldiers bore his body to a grove several miles south, where she used her magic to dig him a grave. Cullen, Dorian, and Varric helped her gather a few stones for a makeshift marker, and she thought it looked rather peaceful when it was done. It was the best they could do for the Tranquil. It felt pitifully small.

She thought of Stroud, of the Divine, and she wondered if Samson would feel the same way about Maddox, that same combination of gratitude and frustration and pain and regret when he thought about the life lost to save his.

 _"He used to be kind" only goes so far_ , Cullen had said. And she knew that he was right. Samson was so deep into red lyrium use that he might not even be sane any more—that letter he'd left for Cullen certainly suggested madness. But she hoped enough of him remained to feel sorrow over Maddox's sacrifice. The former mage deserved to have someone remember him.


	32. Chapter 32

**Kirkwall, 9:37-9:40 Dragon**

In the first days after the Kirkwall rebellion, Cullen thought his task was to maintain order as best as possible until the Chantry sent aid. So he spread the word that the Rite of Annulment was no longer in effect and promised safety and amnesty to any mage who wished to return to the Circle. Then he issued a clear order to his Templars: they could fight in self-defense, but otherwise they were to engage mages in combat if and only if civilians were in danger. The fighting had to stop before it tore Kirkwall apart.

A week after the rebellion, he still had not received word from the Order, and only a handful of mages remained in the Gallows—ten in all, six of them children, and one so elderly that he frequently mistook Cullen for his Knight-Commander of many years ago. Cullen did what he could to restore their shattered Circle to some semblance of order. He soon saw that this would not be possible. The Gallows had been destroyed too thoroughly, and Kirkwall was too angry, and the Chantry still had not intervened. So he made arrangements for some of his Templars to escort their mages to Ostwick, a Circle with a reputation for being quiet and relatively safe.

The remaining knights went to work repairing the city and supporting Guard-Captain Aveline's efforts to keep Kirkwall from collapsing into chaos. Aveline regarded them with deep suspicion, but ever the pragmatist, she accepted their help so long as Cullen and the others did not get in her way. And there was plenty of work to go around. Opportunists looked at Kirkwall and saw a city in chaos with no one to protect it. Cullen did his best to prove the scavengers wrong, still waiting for word from the Chantry, for reinforcements, for new orders, for _something_.

It was six months before Cullen realized the truth. No one from the Chantry would be coming; no one from the Order would be contacting them. Kirkwall was on its own, and so were its Templars.

A year after the Circle rebellion, Cullen's lip was sliced open by a slaver in Kirkwall's alienage. Kirkwall's defenders were spread thin that day and he'd gone alone to investigate rumors about disappearances among the elves. He soon found himself hopelessly outnumbered and trapped in an alleyway. He gripped his sword and prepared to die fighting—but then the alley filled with magic, primal and powerful as a thunderstorm. Hawke's Dalish friend had heard the battle and had come to help.

Only after the fight did it seem to occur to her that he was still a Templar; she blinked at him warily, shifting her feet, saying nothing. So he bowed to her. "You have my thanks," he said sincerely. Then he winced—the cut on his face was much deeper than he'd thought. Blood ran into his mouth; he could taste it on his tongue.

"You're hurt," she said. "Oh, but of course you know that. I'm not much good at healing, but I'll give it a try, since it's not so bad really. Unless you'd rather I didn't."

Cullen did not suppose that accepting healing from a Dalish apostate was entirely proper, but since he still had not heard anything from the Chantry or the Order, he did as he saw fit. "I would appreciate that," he mumbled, wiping the blood gingerly from his lips, trying not to pull at the wound.

"You'll probably still have a scar," she warned him, raising her hand and reaching out with her magic. "Although I'm told shemlen women like them. Or was that shemlen men?"

She was right, there was a scar, but at least it healed neatly and quickly.

Then Prince Sebastian Vael regained his throne in Starkhaven and sent—well, he described it as "aid." And the Starkhaven troops did help, in a way; the extra hands rebuilt homes and streets and Hightown stalls. But the Starkhaven contingent included Templars, who searched, constantly, and asked many questions about Hawke and especially about Anders. Nothing they said could seem to convince the Prince that they would have turned over Anders if they'd had him.

Aveline began asking pointed questions of her own, about when Starkhaven would need its troops back. Her expression grew stonier and stonier every time she was rebuffed with an answer such as "soon" or "when Kirkwall no longer needs us." It was increasingly clear that Starkhaven's "aid" was also the vanguard of an invasion force. Cullen started quietly passing Aveline intelligence he gleaned from the Starkhaven Templars about the troops' orders from Prince Sebastian; he also shared information about clandestine ways through the city, former Templar safe houses, weapons stocks, and other things that the Order had previously kept secret. When the invasion came, Starkhaven would find Kirkwall's resistance surprisingly organized and well-prepared.

And meanwhile, mages all over Thedas grew restless and the Templars cracked down harder; finally, at Andoral's Reach, the First Enchanters voted to dissolve the Circles. In response, the Lord Seeker declared the Templars independent from the Chantry, and Thedas spiraled into war.

Cullen got extremely drunk the night he heard that news. He'd given his life to the Chantry, to the Templar order, thinking that he could do some good, that he could protect people. Time and time again he'd failed, been unable to protect himself, much less those under his charge. And now he was powerless to do anything while the entire world burned—burned because of something that had started in Kirkwall, in his Circle.

Some part of him had still assumed—or maybe just hoped—that the Chantry would do _something_. Divine Justinia was trying, he supposed, but it seemed to him that she had moved too slowly, that now the world was too fucking _broken_ for anyone to put back together.

Maybe if he'd paid closer attention, stopped Meredith sooner, not been so lost in his rage over Kinloch Hold, maybe the world would never have broken at all.

Two months later, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast was standing in the Gallows courtyard demanding to speak with him.

"I am afraid our guest quarters are not prepared for a visitor of your status," he said after greeting her, gesturing about at the piles of rubble. "We were able to restore the Templars' quarters, but since then we have had … other priorities."

"So I have heard," she said, giving him an appraising look. "You have had your Templars repairing homes, breaking up street brawls, guarding supplies, fighting slavers, and occasionally following the orders of Aveline Hendyr, a known associate of the Champion."

"We should have been out looking for mages to kill, I suppose," he said wearily. "Forgive me for putting this bluntly, Seeker, but if those are your orders for me you have my resignation. I will not help the Lord Seeker tear Thedas apart." He could barely stand to swallow his regular dose of lyrium anymore.

"I am not here to deliver orders," the Seeker said. "At least, not to you. But I _am_ here to offer you a chance to do more."

As she described the Inquisition, its structure, its purpose, Cullen felt something like hope again. _If her Inquisition can do what she claims, and I can help it—then I must. It will not erase my failures. But at least I might atone for some of them._

* * *

 **Temple of Dumat, 9:41 Dragon**

 _Cullen,_

 _You're fighting the wrong battle, just as you did in Kirkwall. Drink enough lyrium and its song reveals the truth._

 _The Chantry used us, discarded us. Why would you pledge yourself to this Inquisition, make yourself their servant again? Corypheus has made me his general and his vessel of power. The red lyrium will help you see the future Corypheus plans to build us._

 _There is nothing to fear in its song, and plenty left for you here. Take it. See._

 _Samson_

"Does he expect me to understand?" Cullen scoffed when Cecily asked what was in the letter.

But the terrible thing was, he _did_ understand. At least parts of it. Hadn't he felt abandoned by the Chantry and the Order? Hadn't he needed something else to give him a purpose, felt lost before he found the Inquisition?

He felt no urge to drink red lyrium. But he understood, now, why his former brother followed the Darkspawn magister, why Maddox had in turn followed Samson. Corypheus had given them what the Inquisition had given Cullen. A cause, a purpose, a hope for something better to come.

 _A frightening thought._

* * *

They were halfway back to Skyhold when Dorian pulled his horse up next to hers. "Cecily. Might we …" He paused, uncertain. Which made Cecily worry. She had _never_ seen Dorian uncertain.

"Might we stop at Redcliffe, before returning to Skyhold?" he finished. "I find myself _very_ curious about what my family's retainer has been directed to do. And …" he trailed off.

Cecily heard the unspoken words. _I may not get another chance._ Something big was gathering on the horizon; she could feel it, and apparently the others could as well. "I'll tell Cullen," she said. "And if your family's retainer is there to knock you on the head I hope he's prepared for a fight."

"Yes, if it's a trap, we escape and kill everyone," Dorian said brightly. "We're good at that."

* * *

It was not a trap. It was worse. It was his father.

His father's eyes immediately flickered to Cecily, and for a moment, Dorian saw hope in them. His stomach clenched. _Yes, Father, I know. She's pretty and clearly a mage and you just can't help but wonder if she's cured my little 'fixation,' can you?_

For one awful moment Dorian was back in that room in Qarinus, watching his father prepare the ritual, growing more and more afraid as his questions about what this was for were met with vague replies.

"It's for you. To rid you of your unnatural fixation, to give you the future you deserve," his father had finally admitted.

 _No, Father. That ritual was never for my benefit. You were willing to risk driving me mad, hollowing out my mind, all for you and your legacy._

When his father's gaze returned to him, he flinched at the anger in Dorian's eyes. And then, to Dorian's surprise, he looked a bit ashamed. "Inquisitor Trevelyan," Dorian said, his mouth unexpectedly dry. "This is my father, Magister Halward Pavus."

His father's expression grew alarmed. "Inquisitor? I had not meant for you to be involved."

"I take the safety of my people seriously. If you wished to avoid my attention, you should not have tried to lure Dorian to a secret meeting without informing him of its purpose," Cecily said crisply. "Frankly I'm shocked that this isn't a trap."

"You have a suspicious mind, Inquisitor, though I suppose you must," Halward sighed. "I apologize for the deception."

"Don't talk to me. Talk to your son. You went to enough trouble to speak with him," she said.

"Yes, and what is this, exactly, Father?" Dorian snapped, finally finding his tongue. "Ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?"

The conversation deteriorated from there. Halward acted as if his anger was a willful temper tantrum, told the Inquisitor that he had always been this way. So Dorian said exactly what he knew would most upset his father: "I prefer the company of men. As in sex." His father stiffened and scolded him for causing a scene. Dorian threw the ritual in his face—told Cecily what his father had been willing to risk to 'cure' him. Cecily looked properly appalled, bless her.

"Dorian, please. If you'll only listen to me," Halward begged.

"Why? So you can spout more convenient lies?"

"If I knew I would drive you to the Inquisition …"

"You didn't," Dorian said, furious that Halward would think him so childishly unprincipled, think that he'd picked a cause at random just to get away. "I joined the Inquisition because it's the right thing to do. Once, I had a father who would have known that."

Halward could have said a thousand things that would have made Dorian storm out, that would have ended this right then. Instead, he said the one thing that threatened to break Dorian's resolve.

"Once I had a son who trusted me. A trust I betrayed. I only wanted to talk to him. To hear his voice again. To ask him to forgive me."

Harsh, stinging tears rose at the back of Dorian's eyes, and for a moment his throat was too choked to get words out. He looked over at Cecily.

"Do you want to hear what he has to say?" she asked, pitching her voice low.

He nodded.

"Then I'll be outside."

* * *

Cecily waited outside that tavern for over two hours. She supposed she could have walked around the town, checked up on the Inquisition's work there—but she had told Dorian she would stay, and she was still wary of the chance of a trap. She kept her ears alert, not eavesdropping, but listening for any sign of trouble, for any sign that Halward Pavus had brought people to drag Dorian away unwillingly.

None came. And finally, Dorian pushed open the door to the tavern, his dark eyes rimmed with red.

"He says we're too much alike. Too much pride." Dorian shook his head and laughed humorlessly. "Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display."

"It would take a lot more than a fight with your father to change my opinion of you," she said, standing and putting a hand on his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

He sighed. "No, not really. But I am glad I came."

There it was again, that unspoken sentence. _I may not get another chance._

"Maybe the next time you see him will be easier," she said.


	33. Chapter 33

Suddenly it seemed that everyone in Skyhold had tasks on their mind, things they would regret leaving undone.

Vivienne tried to heal her lover. Josephine began working to restore her family's trading connections. Cassandra and Leliana both contemplated the possibility of becoming Divine. The Iron Bull passed on the news that the Qunari were offering the Inquisition an alliance—although that did not go quite as planned. Cecily had no regrets when they returned from the Storm Coast with the Chargers and no alliance. She'd heard the way Gatt said the word "mage;" she didn't much like the idea of an ally who would look for a chance to sew her mouth shut as soon as Corypheus was dead. She was sorry that Bull was now Tal-Vashoth, but Dorian quietly assured her that he would be all right. "I suspect he's been more The Iron Bull than Hissrad for a while now," he told her.

When Cecily and her team returned from the Storm Coast, her advisors were waiting with news. Corypheus's armies had been traced to the Arbor Wilds. Morrigan thought she knew what the Elder One sought there: an Eluvian, an ancient mirror that might give the magister a path into the Fade.

Cecily would have wished for more time to plan, but if Morrigan was right, they could not delay.

The Inquisition was going to war.

* * *

The night before their departure, Cecily could not sleep.

She kept trying to think of things they might have forgotten, problems that might arise. Did she have Dagna's rune ready to use when she met Samson? Would their allies be there in time? Could Leliana's agents move quickly enough? Could the Inquisition's armies hold against Samson's remaining red Templars—had the blows they'd dealt his forces been severe enough to hobble him as they'd hoped? Would Cullen— _no_. She could not permit herself to think about that, not if she wanted to remain sane.

Finally, Cecily acknowledged that sleep was not going to come. She rose from her bed and lit her fire with a quick tendril of magic, then sat cross-legged on the floor in front of its warmth. For the first time since she'd left the Circle, she began the Cycle of the Elements. It was a simple exercise, taught to apprentices who were still trying to learn to control their power, but her mentor Lydia had encouraged it as a form of meditation as well. It was worth trying, at least.

She began with fire, the element she'd always been most at ease with. She opened her hands palms-up and let a slim tongue of flame blossom from her right hand, arc in front of her, then fall to meet her left hand, where she melted it back to magic and drew its mana back into herself. Then, ice; a network of fine crystals rose from her left hand and glittered in the firelight before they began their descent to her right hand. Lightning and spirit soon followed; then she began again with fire. The anchor on her left hand pulsed a bit in response to the magic, but she was used to that, now.

Lydia had said the Chant during these exercises. Cecily had not done that in years, but she began now, praying softly as the elements rose and fell in front of her.

"And there I saw the Black City, its towers forever stain'd, its gates forever shut," she whispered. "Heaven has been filled with silence, I knew then, and cross'd my heart with shame."

 _An ironic choice of passage. Is that what Corypheus saw?_

She switched to a different verse. "Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me."

 _Well, that's a lie. I do fear the legion. But I cannot let that stop me._

A knock downstairs sent an arch of ice crystals collapsing to the floor. Cecily stood, shivering as some of the ice found her toes and melted between them, grabbed her robe from a nearby chair, and went to see who it was.

There was no one there by the time she opened the door. Annoyed, she moved to close it—but then she saw the figure on the stairs.

"Cullen?"

"I—oh!" he said, turning back to her. "I knocked, but then realized how foolish I'd been. You must have been asleep. I'm so sorry."

Cecily couldn't help laughing at that. "I was not. Nor was I anywhere near sleep. I cannot seem to close my eyes."

"Nor can I," Cullen admitted. "I keep thinking about what awaits us. What awaits _you_." He stepped back to her, stopping just short of touching her. "It … was harder than I expected, to fight alongside you at Samson's stronghold. You are skilled, and careful, and have loyal people with you. But I hated seeing you in danger." His mouth thinned unhappily. "And yet now I cannot be at your side, and that seems even worse."

"I feel just the same," she admitted. "I don't enjoy watching people try to kill you, but if they're going to try I would rather be there to stop them. I won't have that option in the Arbor Wilds."

He brushed his hand through her hair, tucking it behind her shoulder, and then pulled her into his arms. She returned the embrace fiercely, trying to convince herself that if she held him tightly enough they _would_ come back here, that nothing bad could happen.

Cullen's mouth soon found hers. It felt different, somehow, than all of the other times they'd kissed—more intense, almost desperate, as if he were worried that she might vanish from his arms right then. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back the same way, trying to drive away his fears, and hers.

He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers, one hand cupping her cheek, his breath coming quickly. "Cecy, I …"

"Would you like to come upstairs?" she blurted out.

"I—I would," he said.

Cecily put her hand in his and pulled him through the door, pausing to bar it behind them. She wondered if he'd heard the full invitation in her words—wondered if she should say something else to make it clear what she was asking.

Halfway up the stairs Cullen stopped, looked as if he might say something, and then took her face in his hands and kissed her, tender and inviting, no fear in it now. When he pulled back—not far, just far enough to look at her—his eyes were almost golden in the soft torchlight. "So. Since we can't sleep, what do you want to do?" he asked softly.

She knew, then, that he had heard her invitation, and this was his way of asking if she was sure. She caught her breath. "I want—" She swallowed nervously. "I want you. Upstairs. In my bed. Naked, preferably. If that's what you want."

She almost didn't get to finish that sentence before he was kissing her again. "Maker, yes," he breathed against her mouth.

She took his hands, smiled at him, and pulled him the rest of the way up the stairs.

* * *

Some time later, as she rested her head on his shoulder, Cullen stroked her hair and whispered, "Are you awake?"

"Yes. But I do feel much more relaxed," Cecily murmured, nestling closer to him. "I may actually sleep tonight."

"I—perhaps I should go back to my own bed?" he said hesitantly. "I am not the most restful sleeper."

She propped herself on one elbow to look at him. "Are you telling me you snore?" she teased.

He chuckled. "No. But I do have dreams. Not pleasant ones."

She brushed her fingers against his cheek. "I would really like you to stay," she said softly. "I think I'd sleep better with you here, bad dreams or no."

His answering smile told her that this was the response he'd hoped for. "You are—I have never felt anything like this," he said, his voice low and warm. "Cecy, I—I love you. I hope it's not too soon to say that."

She leaned in and kissed him. "I love you too," she said, almost shyly. "Does that mean you're staying?"

He chuckled and kissed her back. "I haven't decided yet. Do _you_ snore?" he asked.

"Certainly not. What an accusation to make about your Inquisitor," she said, resting her head back on his chest and running her hand down his side. To her surprise, he jumped a bit and his skin shivered underneath her fingers. She laughed, delighted. "You're ticklish!"

"Am not," he said, his voice muffled from trying to hold back his laughter.

"How did I not realize this much earlier?" She ran her fingers over his side again, drawing another shiver from him.

He reached down and caught her hand, then easily rolled both of them over, pinning her underneath him, his body warm against hers. He grinned down at her. "Shall we find out if _you're_ ticklish?" he asked, tracing his fingertips down the inside of her arm, watching for her reaction.

"I'm not," she lied breathlessly. "But you're welcome to try and prove me wrong."


	34. Chapter 34

**The Wounded Coast, 9:37 Dragon**

Samson made his decision as soon as they brought the hostage to the Wounded Coast. He had already been uneasy with the use of blood magic, and if anyone had asked him he would have said that it was a bad idea to kidnap a Grey Warden. But taking the Champion's brother prisoner? That was just bloody suicide.

He snuck out while Grace and Thrask were arguing; he worried someone would try to stop him, but these idiots were too stupid to notice him slip away. He moved quietly at first, but as he put more distance between himself and the others he quickened his pace, not caring if his footsteps made noise. He hoped he could get out of the Wounded Coast before …

"Well, well. Aren't you the upstanding citizen who sent Feynriel to that slaver? Or was that another ex-Templar begging for bits of lyrium dust in Lowtown?"

Samson stopped, squared his shoulders, and turned to face the Champion of Kirkwall.

Wealth and status hadn't changed Hawke much since he'd met her six years ago; her clothing was less ragged, but she still had the same cool confidence, the same sharp tongue. And the same determination to involve herself in everyone else's business.

As if Hawke herself weren't bad enough, she'd brought friends. The Guard-Captain stood behind the Champion, looking furious; a strange elf with pale silver hair glared at him with deep contempt, his hand already on the sword hilt between his shoulders; the storytelling dwarf from The Hanged Man had his crossbow leveled directly at Samson's gut.

"Well, here you are. You've been sticking your nose in every problem in Kirkwall since you stumbled off the boat," he sneered. "Looks like it's finally caught up with you and yours."

"Where's Carver?" the apostate snapped. She didn't bother to hide the magic coiling around her. Her companions looked equally grim. If they didn't like his answer, Samson suspected that this was going to hurt.

"Your brother is alive. As for me, I'm leaving."

"Had a change of heart? How unexpectedly sensible of you," she said acidly. "Let me guess. They're using blood magic."

He snorted. "What else? I thought with Meredith gone I might take up the shield again, but I don't have the stomach to turn against all that's right and natural just to get rid of her. Maybe she was right—give them a hint of freedom, mages go bad."

Fortunately the Champion didn't interpret that as a personal insult. Or perhaps she just didn't care what he thought. "Oh, just go," she sighed with a little wave of her hand. "Try not to help anyone kidnap my brother again."

 _That one thinks she's smart,_ Samson thought bitterly as he walked away. _But she's headed for a bad end. This whole damned city is._

At least there might still be something to salvage out of this mess.

* * *

Cullen knew he wasn't going to like what he found at the Wounded Coast. He also knew that Samson was not telling him everything. His former roommate had fallen far from the honest man he'd been as a Templar; he was unkempt and shifty, answering questions with questions, assuring Cullen that he was only there to help the Order stop blood mages, "like any good citizen."

And so of course, when Samson led them to their destination, Cullen found none other than Hawke, standing on the site of a recent battle, glaring at the surviving mages and Templars with an expression that probably had a few of them wetting their smallclothes.

"Champion. Samson never said you were involved in this," he said through gritted teeth. _And why is that, Samson? Did you really think this sorry lot would kill her?_

"You know me. I just _love_ being involved in things," Hawke said. She gave the Knight-Captain a sweet, cutting smile.

Cullen was not in the mood for Hawke's irreverence at the moment. "I trust you were here to stop these traitors, not join them?"

"They kidnapped my brother." For once, there was no humor in Hawke's tone.

Cullen caught Carver's eye. The young Warden looked back at him with a sour expression. "Yes, it's been a splendid day," he said sarcastically. "I can see that Kirkwall's Templars continue to do a bang-up job of stopping blood mages. Do pass my compliments on to the Knight-Commander."

Rage filled Cullen—and panic. _He's right. Even with everything Meredith has done, we are still losing._ But he forced that thought down and pretended to ignore Carver. "I suppose you'll recommend mercy for the survivors?" he asked Hawke.

"You know me too well, Knight-Captain," she said with a little smirk. Then her expression turned serious again. "This will continue to happen so long as Meredith is in charge. You must know that."

But Cullen was already pushing past her to arrest the conspirators.

As they gathered the mages together for the march back to the Circle, Samson cleared his throat. "D'you think—I helped you today. Surely the Knight-Commander would see that and consider reinstating me. If you put in a word for me."

Cullen turned to him, incredulous. "You must be joking. Reinstate you, for joining a movement to depose her? Just because you had a convenient change of heart when the Champion showed up?"

"That's not how it happened," Samson growled.

"Plead your case to Meredith, if you must. But leave me out of it," Cullen sighed.

When they returned to Kirkwall, Samson did not accompany them.

* * *

 **The Temple of Mythal, 9:41 Dragon**

Samson had to suppress a laugh when he saw the Herald of Andraste. He had seen her from a distance at Haven, of course, but this was his first good look at her. Up close, he found her utterly ordinary.

 _This? This is the creature who pretends to be my master's rival? This frail little mageling?_

"Inquisitor. You and those elf-things don't know when to stop," he chuckled. "You've hunted us half across Thedas. I should've guessed you'd follow us into this hole."

Behind her, Seeker Pentaghast tightened her grip on her sword. "We would follow you further to stop your mad plan," she declared.

The Inquisitor watched him, her gray eyes wide and calm—and almost sad. "Maddox died at the Temple of Dumat," she told him. "He died to save you. Is there enough of you left in there to care?"

Regret filled Samson. "Don't pretend you know me, Inquisitor," he snarled. "I told him not to stay, but he believed in our cause. As should you. Do you really think you can match my master, little mage?" he mocked. "Even if you drink from the Well, you'll never use its wisdom as he could."

"And if you drink from the Well, it will drive you mad," she replied. "You can still turn away from this, Samson." She almost sounded as if she believed that—as if she thought she could help him.

 _Idiot girl._ "Being force-fed Chantry lyrium was good for something. This armor makes me a fortress, mind and body." He drew on the power of the red lyrium, then. He let the scales and plates of his fortress move and glow; he let the false Herald and her lackeys see the power he held. "So, Inquisitor," he said, drawing his sword, beckoning to her with one hand. "How will this go?"

The Inquisitor met his eyes, then reached into her belt and drew out a flat disc—a rune, one Samson had never seen before. "Not the way you were expecting, I think," she said.

The rune began to glow; he could feel its vibrations even from where he stood.

And then Samson's armor ripped and shattered.

Pain engulfed him, a thousandfold worse than the lyrium withdrawal he'd suffered all those years ago. The red lyrium that ran through his being, that cradled him in its fortress, cracked and shifted and broke, tumbling to useless dust all around him.

As Samson fell to his knees, he choked out the order to attack. He tried to collect enough of himself to lift his sword, to join his brothers in battle. But he knew beyond a doubt that everything was over. He had failed his master, and there would be no forgiveness for it.


	35. Chapter 35

Watching the Inquisitor examine the statue of Fen'Harel produced an odd out-of-body feeling in Solas.

He had known his fate would be tied to hers the moment he realized what had happened to the orb—what had happened to the anchor that Corypheus wanted for himself. Solas had saved her life because there was no other option, followed her to the Inquisition because he had no other choice. The last thing he had expected to find in this human was someone worthy of respect, someone open to the possibility that there was more to spirits and to the Fade than what she had learned in her Circle.

He had come to think of her as a friend, as much as someone like him was capable of being a friend. And he was increasingly sorry for all the lies of omission he had to make in this Temple. Pretending he didn't know every word of the ancient inscriptions on the statues. Staying quiet as Morrigan confidently announced half-truths—half-truths gleaned through careful study, he knew, but half-truths nonetheless. He would not conceal anything that might keep them safe, but neither could he tell the others all he knew.

"Why would _this_ be here?" Morrigan asked, her eyes following the Inquisitor's. "It depicts the Dread Wolf, Fen'Harel. Setting Fen'Harel in Mythal's greatest sanctum is as blasphemous as painting Andraste naked in the Chantry!"

Solas clenched his jaw and remained silent.

"There are statues of Maferath, Andraste's betrayer, in some Chantries," Cecily mused. "Perhaps this serves a similar purpose?"

"In elven tales Fen'Harel tricks the gods into sealing themselves away in the Beyond for all time. This could be a reminder of vigilance for the faithful," Morrigan agreed.

Solas could not keep silent at that. "For all your knowledge, Lady Morrigan, you cannot resist giving legend the weight of history. The wise do not mistake one for the other. "

"And pray tell, what meaning does our elven expert sense lurking behind this?" Morrigan asked archly.

"None we can discern by staring at it." Solas hoped that would be the end of it.

"Perhaps we'll have time to study this place later," Cecily said wistfully, giving the statue one last look. "We should move forward."

* * *

"I did not expect the Well to feel so … hungry."

Morrigan's description was surprisingly astute. Solas could feel that hunger as well—all of that knowledge, all of that history, that powerful will, yearning to reach beyond the confines of the Well.

"I am willing to pay the price the Well demands," Morrigan said, open longing on her face as she gazed at its waters.

The Inquisitor's expression was less entranced. She raised her chin in determination—or perhaps resignation. "As am I, if it means stopping Corypheus."

Solas's blood ran cold.

Morrigan turned to her in horror. "You lead the Inquisition. This is not a risk you can take. _I_ am the best suited to use its knowledge in your service."

"I don't think it's just knowledge, Morrigan. It's _will_ ," the Inquisitor said quietly. "The will of the ancient elven priests. That's what Abelas was telling us. Drinking from the Well will put you under a compulsion, a geas."

Morrigan seemed impressed in spite of herself. "That … would match the legends," she admitted. "You are right, we must be cautious. But we do not know what this geas will entail—or even if you are entirely correct. Let me drink."

The Inquisitor shook her head. "I cannot ask this of you."

"You are asking nothing!" the sorceress said, frustrated. "I am willing, and I wish this."

"Inquisitor, please. Let her take the risk," Cassandra agreed. "You are too important to our cause."

That was not an argument that would hold weight with the Inquisitor, Solas suspected. She was no fool—she knew the role she had to play, knew that she must occasionally send others into dangers that she could not face herself. But she also knew her duty. If the Inquisition needed the Well's knowledge, she would consider it her responsibility to gain it, whatever the personal cost.

Someone had to partake of that power if they were to stop Corypheus. And Solas did not trust Morrigan. _Perhaps it would be better for the Inquisition if the Well went to someone who had its best interests in mind._

But it would not be better for their Inquisitor.

"Cecily," he said urgently.

He did not normally use her given name, and it had the desired effect; she went still and met his eyes, clearly giving extra weight to his words. "If Lady Morrigan will risk the price, let her do so—but you should not drink from the Well."

 _I have lied to you in so many ways that you will likely never know, and you trusted me. Trust me now, my friend, when I tell you the truth._ Do not drink. _That Well will make you Mythal's creature and you will never again be free._

"All right," the Inquisitor said at last. "Lady Morrigan, the Well is yours. Are you truly certain—"

But the sorceress was already walking into the Well.


	36. Chapter 36

Cecily lay on the floor in front of Morrigan's Eluvian for a long moment, slightly sore from the impact, but mostly just incredulous at their escape.

"You all right there, Inquisitor?" Varric asked, standing with a wince.

"I'm fine. Everyone else?" she asked.

Solas, Cassandra, and Morrigan all murmured something in the affirmative.

"So, correct me if I'm wrong, but did we just escape Corypheus by jumping through an ancient elven mirror?" Varric asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Forgive me, Inquisitor, but this shit is _weird_."

Cecily couldn't help a laugh. "I don't disagree. The army is going to have no idea what happened to us." Her stomach twisted when she thought of Cullen's likely reaction. "I need to get to Leliana's ravens to send them a message."

* * *

The Commander knew something important had happened at the Temple when their enemy suddenly fell into a full retreat. The Red Templars were fearsome fighters, but they were badly outnumbered. A sane general would have withdrawn and regrouped immediately; Corypheus's people stayed on the battlefield until late into the day. But, of course, winning or losing the battle was not really the point—the only thing that mattered was whether Cecily and the others had prevented Corypheus from claiming the Eluvian.

When the Inquisitor had not returned by nightfall, Cullen took a detachment of his best soldiers to sweep the Temple of Mythal. But she was gone, along with the three she'd taken with her.

They did, however, find Samson. Dagna's rune had evidently done its work. Samson's armor lay in ruins; he was badly injured, but alive.

"Take this man to our healers and make him well enough for questioning," Cullen snapped, forcing down his rising panic. "He may be the only one who knows what happened to the Inquisitor."

It was a full day before Samson regained consciousness. At first Cullen feared that Corypheus's general would be reluctant to talk, but the former Templar was a broken man, and surprisingly forthcoming when Cullen and Leliana came to ask what had happened in the Temple of Mythal.

"Corypheus came for her, but the Well was already lost," he muttered. "Then the Inquisitor and her lackeys vanished through that mirror. I don't know how. My master tried to follow but could not."

Leliana's face brightened; she gestured for Cullen to follow her out of the tent. "The Eluvian!" she whispered. "They must have returned to Skyhold. She is all right, Commander."

Cullen tried very hard to believe that.

* * *

The journey back to Skyhold took some of the longest days of Cullen's life. Three days after the battle at the Arbor Wilds, Leliana was finally able to exchange messages with Skyhold. She had been right. Cecily and the others were alive, thanks to Morrigan's Eluvian. Still, Cullen knew he would not feel entirely at ease until he saw her again.

When they finally reached Skyhold, Cecily was waiting on the steps to their great hall, standing straight and proud, every inch the Inquisitor. She descended the stairs as her people marched into their fortress and immediately began pressing her hands to theirs, asking about injuries, assuring them that Corypheus had failed and the Inquisition had achieved its aims.

Cullen knew this was important, this moment of leadership, of thanks, so he hung back, waited until her journey through the soldiers brought her to his side. He met her eyes and saw his own relief mirrored on her face.

For once, Cullen didn't care who saw, or what they might say. He took two fast steps forward and hugged the Inquisitor tight for all of Skyhold to see.

* * *

Cecily had hoped that she and Cullen would be able to take some time together with the army returned to Skyhold. Instead, the next two days were some of the busiest she'd ever experienced at the Inquisition. It seemed that every time they closed a door, someone was knocking at it two minutes later with a task that absolutely had to be accomplished immediately. Thanks had to be issued to their allies; soldiers had to be redeployed to avoid overtaxing Skyhold's resources; Vivienne cornered her with a detailed plan for dealing with Morrigan should the sorceress attempt to abscond with the knowledge from the Well. Meanwhile, Orlais was already asking pointed questions about just how much longer the Inquisition would be needed.

All of this was important. Cecily knew that. But was it really too much to ask for one uninterrupted hour? She was seriously considering asking The Iron Bull to stand guard outside her door the next time she and Cullen went up to her chambers. It would be rather like hanging out a large, Qunari-shaped sign that said "The Inquisitor and the Commander are upstairs and naked, come back later," and the Qunari in question would never stop teasing her about it, but Cecily was getting desperate.

It didn't help that when she ran into Cole in the gardens, two days after the army's return to Skyhold, the spirit boy took one look at her and said, "His scar curves. He's smiling at you. Are his hands supposed to be there? Are yours?"

He blinked at her through his bangs. "You're turning red. Why are you changing colors?"

"It's called blushing, Cole. It may happen to you soon," she said. "It happens when someone is embarrassed."

"Oh," Cole said. "Why are you embarrassed now?"

"Because those things are … private," she explained as her face flushed again. "Most people—well, _I_ don't talk about them."

"Why not?" the spirit boy asked. "I don't understand them, but they make you happy." He smiled at her. "They make him happy too."

Cecily walked straight from the gardens to Cullen's office.

* * *

The Commander, unfortunately, was not alone. He was finishing a meeting with some of his soldiers, discussing supply routes and relief efforts. He caught her eye when she entered. "That will be all," he finished, somewhat hurriedly.

The soldiers saluted him and walked out. Cecily could hear them whispering as they moved onto the battlements. _More talk for the barracks tonight, I suppose_ , she thought ruefully.

"Everything all right?" she asked.

"Now that you're here? Yes." He noticed that the door was a bit ajar and moved to shut it.

"Lock it. And then let's put the desk in front of it," Cecily suggested wryly.

He laughed, sliding the deadbolt into place. "It's always something, isn't it? But it won't always be that way."

"Maker, I hope not," she said. She crossed the room and slid her arms around his neck. "Care to place bets on how long before someone comes looking for one of us?"

"I won't put money on anything over five minutes," he laughed. "But let's tempt fate." He leaned down and kissed her.

Cecily kissed him back. Half of her was waiting for that knock at the door, but when it didn't come, she broke the kiss and moved to his side door, locking it as well. Cullen's eyes gleamed as he slid the lock on his third door.

"Now we've done it," he murmured. "Three doors locked. I give it one minute."

"Then let's make it a memorable minute," Cecily said, perching on the edge of his desk—and knocking a glass bottle to the floor, where it shattered on the stone.

She jumped up. "Oh, Maker! I'm so sorry."

Cullen looked from the bottle back to her. A broad grin spread across his face. With a sweep of his arm he cleared the desk, sending papers and pens and at least one inkwell crashing to the ground. He reached for her again, trapping her against the desk, his hands at her waist, his smile wicked and playful. Laughing, Cecily lay back and pulled him with her.

"If no one's going to interrupt us, we should stop," Cullen whispered a while later. "We _cannot_ do this on my _desk_."

"No, of course not," Cecily said, fighting for her breath. "Um. _Why_ not, exactly?"

He pressed his forehead to hers and smiled. "Because my bed is right upstairs. And to think, you said that was a bad idea."


	37. Chapter 37

**Kirkwall Docks, 9:40 Dragon**

Seventeen men now followed Samson.

It had transpired so gradually that Samson had not realized what was happening until it had already occurred. After the Order broke away from the Chantry and became obsessed with fighting rebel mages, more and more Templars abandoned it—only to find themselves falling prey to the lyrium withdrawal. Some unlucky Templars from small branches of the Order had found themselves cut off from lyrium simply because Thedas was in disarray and their supply lines had collapsed.

Samson had acquired a reputation as a man who knew how to find lyrium dust, and the former Templars had flocked to him to buy what he could spare—but then some stayed, offering to help his business, to serve him, if he would share his resources.

He did the best he could to keep their addictions fed along with his own. He set up jobs, assigned them to ferry apostates from place to place, established relationships with lyrium smugglers and with Templar suppliers willing to skim a bit off the top. But there was never enough.

Finally, luck had broken their way. A Tevinter merchant had promised them a generous payment in lyrium dust if they would guard his warehouse for a week, until his ship came for his cargo. Samson was not terribly happy that the job had brought them back to Kirkwall, where his face was known, but it could not be helped. The payment they offered would keep his men stable for a few months, at least.

He told his men to be cautious of the Guard during this job—that the cargo was stolen goods, weapons and artifacts and other baubles looted from Kirkwall's abandoned Hightown homes. In reality, he had a strong suspicion that the "cargo" was human or elven. But what choice did Samson have? Someone was always just short of the amount he needed to stave off the pain. A few had been perilously close to madness before. If they had not taken this job, it would be someone else guarding these future slaves. Samson could not help them. But he could help his men, good people that the Chantry had tossed aside like garbage.

The former Templars were disciplined and well-trained. They walked their patrols carefully, relieved each other from their shifts on a precise schedule, kept their weapons sharp and their wits about them. It was still not enough. Not nearly enough.

Four days into their assignment, as Samson paced back and forth in front of the warehouse door, he heard a scream. He ordered Paxley to hold their position and he ran to see what was happening in the alleyway to the west.

When he got there, Ser Maurice and Ser Hale were dead, and Ser Lorrell was facing down an opponent—the silver-haired elf who had followed Hawke. Lorrell was a skilled warrior, but against this man he might as well have been a child with a stick. The elf simply dodged Lorrell's swing and thrust his right hand through Lorrell's breastplate and into his chest. Lorrell screamed, gurgled, and went limp.

The elf let Lorrell fall, then turned his head to speak to someone behind him. "Look at their shields. Former Templars."

"As I feared," sighed a female voice. Guard-Captain Aveline stepped into the alleyway, two guardsmen close behind her. "My informant said that Samson is leading them."

The elf snorted. "Hawke should have killed him years ago."

"Well, be sure to tell her that when she gets here. She and I can flip a coin for the privilege," Aveline said grimly.

Samson ran.

 _I have to get my men out of here._ Abandoning a post was not normally a good business move for mercenaries, but he had a feeling his employers would not be around to complain.

* * *

 **A camp outside Starkhaven, 9:40 Dragon**

There were nine of them, now.

 _The Chantry owed them more than this,_ Samson thought, looking around his ramshackle camp. Inside a nearby tent, he could hear one of them hissing in pain, trying and failing to keep silent as lyrium withdrawal stabbed through him. _And now these poor bastards are so desperate they look to me to lead them—even now, even after what happened in Kirkwall._

Samson threw a stick into the fire in disgust. The new fuel made the fire flare just a bit brighter—and that was when he saw the mage.

An elderly man was standing on the other side of the fire, perfectly still, and apparently unperturbed by Samson's failure to acknowledge him. He was leaning against a staff and wore robes—something no one would have dared, these days, if they did not have the magic to back it up.

"Good evening," the mage said, making Samson an oddly archaic little bow.

The man was gaunt, his gray hair ragged and wispy, his teeth broken and yellowed. His unkempt face formed a contrast to his robes, which were fine and clean, if a bit too big for the man. But he moved and spoke more easily than Samson would have expected for a man of his years; apparently mages did better outside Circles than Templars could.

"Am I correct in thinking that I speak to Samson, formerly of the Kirkwall Templars?" the mage continued, with a hint of an accent that Samson couldn't quite identify.

"You do," Samson said, standing. "And these are my men, former Templars all." He hoped this mage was not there to fight them; stranger things had happened in this fucking war than an elderly mage deciding to make his last stand against a Templar.

"My name is Larius," the mage said, walking around the fire. He came to a halt two paces from Samson and pulled something out of his pocket—a scrap of cloth wrapped around a small object. Samson tensed, but he sensed no magic from the man. "I am looking to recruit people of particular talents—men skilled in battle, ready to fight for a worthy cause."

"Indeed? And what worthy cause is that?" Samson asked.

"I will tell you all you need to know, I assure you. But first, I believe you and your men may be interested in what I offer as payment. Pure, liquid lyrium."

The mage unfolded the scrap of cloth to reveal a lyrium bottle—filled to its tip with a dark red substance.

Samson curled his lip in disgust. "I was a Templar, you daft asshole," he snarled. "Lyrium isn't red."

"Oh, but some of it is. And its power, its song, makes your Templar lyrium look like a pale imitation," Larius said. "Try it. You may consider this a sample."

He lifted the bottle and pulled out its cork. The power that wafted from that red liquid struck Samson like a blow; his limbs began to shake, reminding him that he'd given his last dose to Paxley.

Before he'd really thought about it, he took the vial in his fingers and drained it dry.

* * *

 **Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon**

Samson would say this for the Inquisitor: she did not waste time. When he woke up in an Inquisition cell in Skyhold, he assumed it would be months, or even years, before anyone bothered to do anything with him.

Instead, three days later he was dragged before the Inquisitor's throne, while their Commander—Cullen fucking Rutherford, the half-mad Ferelden, Meredith's eager lackey—recited a list of his crimes and declared a "personal interest" in his fate. The Inquisitor sat perched on her throne, her face a cool mask as she described how seriously she would take this sentence.

"The red lyrium will steal your vengeance," Samson told the Inquisitor, meeting her infuriatingly calm gaze. Was there even a person behind those cold gray eyes? "Corypheus only delayed my corruption."

"Are you still loyal to that _thing_?" Cullen growled. "He poisoned the Order, used them to kill thousands!"

"Templars have always been used!" Samson spat back at him. _How can you not see that?_

"And that justifies placing them in service to a Darkspawn magister who wants to destroy the world?" the Inquisitor said, arching one blonde eyebrow.

Samson shook his head. "I found them a cause, a supply of the lyrium that the Chantry bound them to. I fed them hope instead of despair. I made them believe their pain had purpose—just as the Chantry does. Right, Commander?"

He looked up at Cullen and at least had the satisfaction of seeing his face go still, of seeing that stick-up-his-arse expression that meant Samson was right but Cullen couldn't admit it. "It's the same lie the Chantry tells us," he continued. "Come to think of it, it's the same lie your Inquisition is feeding its people—a glorious leader taking us to a better future. You and Corypheus even have a matched pair of broken-down Templars as your generals," he snorted, turning back to the Inquisitor. "You're prettier than Corypheus, I'll grant you that much."

The Inquisitor just shook her head. "Some months ago a Tevinter mage cast a spell that sent me a year into the future—a year in which Corypheus had free reign over Thedas. The entire sky was green and the world was filled with demons. Is that the future you were fighting for?" she asked.

"I didn't expect to see his future," Samson muttered. "But I had men, former Templars, losing their minds and memories because the Chantry left them to rot. I followed Corypheus so that those men could die at their best."

"Those were Templars at their best? Infused with red lyrium?" the Inquisitor said skeptically. "Half mindless, spitting rocks from their skin?"

"This is pointless, Inquisitor," he snapped. "You will never understand."

"I suppose not," she admitted. "But Maddox believed in you. He died for you, believing your cause was righteous."

Samson gritted his teeth and cast his eyes to the side. "Not your business, Inquisitor."

"It is my business," she said calmly. "We are here to consider all of the blood on your hands—not just your enemies, but your friends as well. Look at me," she said, that icy voice finally holding some heat. "Do you truly feel no responsibility for the deaths of those who followed you—for the deaths of people who sacrificed themselves for your sake?"

Samson's self-control shattered. "As if no one has done the same for you, you self-righteous hypocrite!" he roared. "How many have died in the name of the so-called 'Herald of Andraste?'"

"Too many!" she retorted fiercely, rising from the throne, angry now. "I know they have and I never forget it for a moment! I dream about them. I wonder what I could have done differently. I wonder if my life was really worth theirs."

"Well, aren't you a paragon of virtue, then?" he said bitterly.

"I'm bloody _human_ ," the Inquisitor snapped. "What I want to know is this: are you? Is there any part of you that regrets what you did to the people who trusted you?"

The fight drained out of Samson; he felt his shoulders slump. "It ended as well as anything I've done. Which … isn't saying much." He drew a painful breath. "Everything I cared about is destroyed. Do what you will. Your kind always does."

The Inquisitor tilted her chin up; he could see her shoulders rise and fall as she breathed deeply. She sat back on her throne, poised and cool once more. "Very well. Samson, I sentence you to spend your remaining days serving the Inquisition. Cullen will be your handler."

Samson looked over at Cullen. His former comrade's gaze rested on the Inquisitor, his expression halfway between admiration and worry. "I'll tell your people what they want. But I doubt the Commander believes I have anything to offer your Inquisition," he said—a bit acidly, since the Commander appeared to have forgotten that he even existed.

Cullen turned back to him. "You're not wrong," he said wryly. "But you served something greater than yourself, once. Perhaps you may still do some good."

Samson offered no resistance as he was led back to his cell.


	38. Chapter 38

The Iron Bull caught up to Cullen as he left the audience chamber. "Hey, Commander. Need any backup when you talk to Samson? I'm available."

Cullen could only stare at him. Why would anyone volunteer for such a thing? "To what end?"

Bull shrugged. "My Ben-Hassrath skills might as well be put to some use, right? Plus, I'm scary." He grinned, which rather made his point.

Cullen considered this. "Thank you," he said at last. "I would appreciate the assistance. My history with Samson might make this difficult."

Which, he realized belatedly, was exactly why Bull had offered.

* * *

An hour later, Cullen had ordered a small desk brought down to the jail and was sitting behind it, staring directly into Samson's cell. The Iron Bull stood behind him, looking impassive, intimidating.

"You brought a Qunari mercenary to protect you?" Samson snorted, leaning his arms through the cell bars. The former Templar looked a mess; lank hair, waxy skin, eyes glassy and bloodshot.

"What makes you think he's here to protect _me_?" Cullen asked mildly. "Perhaps he's here to make sure I don't forget myself and run you through. From where I stand, an empty cell is of more use to the Inquisition than you are."

"Ah, yes, the mighty Inquisition," Samson said. "And its fearsome Inquisitor. Personally I think she's a bit of a disappointment up close, but you seem to find her interesting, don't you, Commander?"

"She is an admirable leader," Cullen said mildly, scratching out a line on his paper to make sure the pen worked.

"Please. The way you look at her couldn't be more obvious. Are you just panting after her like a mabari puppy? Or are you actually fucking her?"

Cullen said nothing. Samson smirked. "Probably the former. She seems too highborn to roll around with someone like you—although I bet she finds your little crush amusing. Probably laughs with the other nobles about it over tea in the afternoons."

Slowly, Cullen set his pen down. "What are you trying to achieve, Samson?" he asked wearily. "Are you trying to make me lose my temper and tell you something about the Inquisitor that Corypheus will find useful? Do you really think this is an opportunity for counter-intelligence?"

"Nah. It's sadder than that," the Qunari said suddenly. "He feels like shit, so he wants you to feel like shit too. Less lonely that way."

Samson flinched involuntarily.

"Ah," Cullen said, picking up the pen again. "I see. Samson, please be assured that I am not enjoying this. If I'd been the one making the judgment I would have sent you back to Kirkwall with a complimentary headsman's axe."

Samson scowled at him. "You're awfully high and mighty for a man who helped break the world apart. Or have you forgotten your part at Kirkwall?"

Cullen knew he should not rise to that kind of bait. But he remembered Samson's trial, his sentencing, the pettiness of Meredith's punishment, and felt he owed the man a reply. "I have not forgotten how badly I failed there," he admitted. "I hope I never will. For what it's worth I am sorry for what happened to the man you used to be. Sorry that I did not speak up for him, or Maddox, when Meredith learned about his letters."

"Fat lot of good your 'sorry' does me now," Samson snorted.

"You are not a victim, Samson," Cullen snapped. "Your luck was bad, but your choices brought you here. Enough of this. You said you'd tell us what you know. So let's start with Corypheus. How did he recruit you?"

* * *

When Cecily came to see him that afternoon, Cullen was throwing knives at a training dummy, trying and failing to work out his frustration.

"Imagining anyone in particular?" she asked as he threw his last knife.

Cullen sighed. "I've assigned Samson to Dagna's charge for now; she plans to study him. There may yet be more intelligence we can glean from him, but I gained precious little today."

"That was a good idea. Maybe Dagna can learn something from his resistance to the red lyrium," Cecily said thoughtfully.

"The Iron Bull suggested it. But Samson deserves a far harsher jailor," Cullen growled. "We should have sent him back to Kirkwall. Aveline Hendyr would have had his head on a pike before the sun set." He was angry with Cecily, he realized suddenly—she had a soft heart, and it was one of the things he loved about her, but keeping Samson at the Inquisition was taking things too far. If it hadn't been for Bull's presence he might well have run the man through.

"You're letting him get to you," she said, sounding surprised.

"So what if I am?" Cullen snapped. "He turned good men into monsters and knew exactly what he was doing. I knew some of those men. If my life had gone differently I could have _been_ one of them. Thousands of deaths are on his head and for some reason we're showing him mercy."

Her eyes widened just a fraction. "He will live only long enough to die of red lyrium poisoning," she said. "I do not count that a mercy." For the first time in many months, she was directing her cool noblewoman's voice at him. It did not improve his mood.

"The fact remains that he lives and will have meals and a bed at our expense, while the people he used suffer or grow cold in their graves," Cullen spat. "I felt sorry for him, once. But no more."

Cecily frowned. "I had not realized this would be so difficult for you to manage. I apologize."

"It is no more than my duty, Inquisitor," Cullen said, pulling his knives from the training dummy. "I will see it carried through. Even if I'd rather see the man facing a headsman's axe." He stepped back and threw one of the knives again; it landed in the dummy's throat.

"I appreciate that, Commander," she said, her voice polite and poised. "I'll leave you be."

She left, and Cullen did not stop her.

* * *

Cecily left Cullen's office feeling utterly off-balance. Had that been a fight? Had that been their first fight? What in Thedas had gone wrong? Cullen had been so calm every time they'd discussed his former comrade. He knew Samson, knew what it was like to be a Templar, knew what it was like to fight lyrium addiction. Why was he so angry that she'd kept the man for questioning?

The Iron Bull was waiting for her when she returned to the audience chamber. "Got a minute, boss?" he asked, jerking his head towards a quiet corner.

"Of course," she said, forcing a smile as she followed him. "Cullen said you were in the interrogation with Samson today. Thank you."

"Yeah, about that. I've got a recommendation as a former Ben-Hassrath. Assign someone else to handle Samson."

"He did seem to be having difficulty with this," she said, hearing the brittle edge in her voice.

"Yeah. He did his best, asked the right questions, got some good answers, but Samson knows him too well," The Iron Bull told her. "He knows what to say to hurt the Commander. Worst possible thing for questioning."

Cecily blinked, then sighed. "I made a mistake when I told Cullen to do this, didn't I?"

"Not my place to say, boss," The Iron Bull said, shrugging innocently. "Imply, maybe. But I'd never _say_ it."

"Duly noted," Cecily said dryly. "And … thank you."

Bull clapped her on the shoulder. "Any time, boss. Honestly, if you really want to get something out of him you should talk to Samson yourself. You, he doesn't get at all. And he _hates_ you. Gives you power."

Cecily grimaced a bit at the thought—then realized how much worse it must have been for Cullen, who had actually known Samson as a good man. _I'll owe Cullen an apology when I see him next,_ she thought ruefully as The Iron Bull departed.

She wondered if she should go back and tell Cullen he would not have to see Samson again—but before she could decide whether to give him more time or not, she felt a gentle tug at her arm. Leliana had snuck up on her even more silently than usual.

"Inquisitor," the spymaster said urgently. "Morrigan is gone."

* * *

Some hours later, Cullen had calmed down enough to want to apologize. He still thought that Samson's fate was rather too kind, but he could see why Cecily had wanted to keep him there—he had knowledge of Corypheus, and there was still a chance he might be able to do something useful for the Inquisition. He went to seek her out to tell her he would try again, that he would do better at not letting Samson get to him—but she was not in her chambers.

Eventually, Varric told him he'd seen her go into the storage room where Morrigan kept the Eluvian. But when he pushed the door open only Leliana was there.

The spymaster's face blanched when she saw him. "Do not panic," was the first thing she said.

Morrigan's son had gone into the Eluvian—and Cecily and Morrigan had followed.

Cullen was absolutely, utterly certain that Corypheus was behind this, that he had somehow lured the boy away to draw his rival into a final battle. _And the last thing I said to her was about Samson._

He kept himself calm, barely, by running to find Solas, by trying to ask the questions about the Eluvian that he thought Cecily would ask. Solas's answers made no sense to him. He was on the verge of giving up and asking Leliana to find Dorian when Kieran hopped out of the Eluvian, seeming none the worse for wear. Morrigan and Cecily followed. Morrigan's face was ashen; Cecily's, astonished.

"Are you all right, Kieran?" the sorceress asked her son. "You're not hurt?"

"I feel lonely," the boy said sadly.

Cullen took a deep breath. He wanted to yell at Cecy for going into that blasted thing, but they were back and seemed unharmed; there would be no point in it. "I am glad to see you all safe," he said. "By your leave, Inquisitor."

He turned to go, but Cecily's voice stopped him. "Commander, will you have a moment later?"

He met her eyes and nodded. "I will be in my office. Or … perhaps in the chapel." _I owe the Maker thanks today._

* * *

Cecily could not decide whether she was glad or guilty that Morrigan had been the one to drink from the Well. Perhaps a bit of both. The sorceress was clearly horrified to be bound to her mother, but she had not been so churlish as to hold Cecily responsible. She had wanted the Well; she would not blame the Inquisition for its price. At least Kieran was safe.

And apparently, the Inquisition would need to acquire its own dragon.

 _This shit is weird._ Sometimes Varric's favorite phrase really was the only way to describe things at Skyhold. But at least they had a plan. It was a bizarre plan, but it was a plan.

With those matters settled—or at least at rest, for now—Cecily went to seek out Cullen. He was in the chapel, quietly reciting the Chant, murmuring about those who stand before the wicked and the corrupt. Cecily paused at the back, unsure if she should interrupt something so personal—but he had told her to find him here. "A good prayer," she said softly when he fell silent.

Cullen turned his head. "A prayer for those we've lost." His eyes met hers. "And for those I am afraid to lose."

He rose, his eyes never leaving her face. "Today, I thought—I thought it was Corypheus who had lured you and Morrigan into the Eluvian. And even though it was not, there will be another day when he will come for us—when he will come for you." His face was pale. "Andraste preserve me, I must to send you to him."

"So I can defeat him," Cecily said, reaching for certainty that she didn't quite feel. "So we can end this war. When he comes, it will mean the chance to finish this. Perhaps then you'll be able go an entire day without setting foot in your office," she teased—tentatively, for she was not certain that Cullen wanted to be teased right now.

He smiled faintly. "Do you ever wonder what things will be like, after this is over?"

"Sometimes. I have a hard time imagining it, though," she admitted. "Do you?"

He nodded. "I've come to no conclusions, except that I want to be with you." His brow furrowed a bit. "I don't think I've ever asked you about what you'll want after the Inquisition. Will you still …?"

Cecily reached up and cupped his face with her hand. "You can't possibly think I'll lose interest in you just because one Darkspawn magister is dead, Cullen. You won't be rid of me that easily."

He laughed, then folded her into his arms, holding her tightly. "I'm sorry about earlier."

"I'm sorry I didn't ask you before I placed Samson in your charge," she answered. "And I'm sorry I made you worry today."

"Whatever happens, you _will_ come back," he whispered.

"Is that an order, Commander?"

"No. But as one of your advisors, I strongly recommend it."


	39. Chapter 39

Cecily was not, by nature, a warrior.

She knew herself to be a talented mage, but her studies at Ostwick had been more academic than military. She and Lydia were famously the only two people in their Circle to have finished Dagna's _Treatise on the Relation between Lyrium Vapor and the Supply of Magic in Mages_ (although Cecily was not ashamed to admit she had skimmed some parts). She had read a few books on the theory of using magic as a weapon, but had never had any intention of practicing that art herself.

That had changed the moment the Ostwick Circle's Templars invoked the Rite of Annulment. Cecily killed her first man—then her second, and third—helping to evacuate the Circle's children from their tower. Even now, even after hundreds of battles and far too many deaths on her hands, she did not relish combat the way Cassandra or The Iron Bull or even Dorian seemed to.

And the last time she had faced Corypheus, he had lifted her off her feet as if she weighed nothing, flung her into the trebuchet as if she were a rag doll, shrugged off her spells with barely a flinch. Only his arrogance and his fury at the fact that she'd stolen his anchor had saved her life. It had kept him talking, kept him from realizing her plan until it was too late.

Now, with Samson defeated, with Corypheus's armies on the run and Morrigan confident that she could match his dragon, Cecily had no choice but to face a truth that she had tried very hard to ignore. It would be up to her to defeat Corypheus—and he would not underestimate her again. She was stronger than she'd been at Haven; she had mastered a way to use the anchor as a weapon, learned from Solas and Dorian and Vivienne, honed her skills against red Templars and Venatori and even dragons. But she could not say for certain that it would be enough.

That night, it was Cecily's bad dreams that startled her and Cullen awake.

"What was it?" her Commander asked gently, pressing a hand to her back as she pushed her hair from her face.

Cecily thought about lying, thought about saying it was just a funny dream about being late for her Harrowing, but she would not have wanted that from Cullen. "Him," she said simply. "I felt him—felt him near but could not see him. Could not stop him."

Cullen's arm slid around her shoulders and he kissed her temple. Cecily closed her eyes and leaned into him, waiting for her heartbeat to slow.

And then, far in the distance, Cecily felt a resonance with the mark. She opened her eyes but already knew what she would see when she lifted her left hand—the anchor, crackling and pulsing, splitting her palm painfully as its power surged.

Outside her windows, the sky tore and turned green.

 _Ah_ , Cecily thought, with that strange, intense calm that was really panic at its root. _Not a dream, then._

* * *

"I'll bring what forces I can down to the Temple," Cullen said, running alongside Cecily as she gathered her gear. "But Cecily—we can't be ready as quickly as you will be. The bulk of our army is still returning from the Arbor Wilds, and much of it remains deployed elsewhere. The task of stopping Corypheus …"

"Is mine," Cecily finished. "It was always going to be mine, Cullen. It's all right." Her face was pale but determined, and Cullen's heart felt as if it might shatter right then.

 _You_ will _come back._

Cecily seemed to sense the thought; she paused in the midst of her whirlwind, turned to face him, put her hand at his cheek. Cullen pulled her into his arms and gave her one fierce kiss. "For luck," he said when he released her, trying to force a smile he didn't feel.

 _For luck. Not goodbye._

Cecily's mouth quirked in a half smile; then her expression grew serious and focused again as she cinched her potions to her belt and seized her staff. Cullen was half a step behind her as she ran down the stairs—and therefore, he almost crashed into her when she opened the door and skidded to a halt.

Their entire inner circle was standing in the great hall, armed to the teeth and waiting expectantly for their Inquisitor.

The Iron Bull spoke first. "What, boss? You thought we weren't coming too?"

* * *

Cecily was lucky. When the ground broke apart at the Temple, Solas and Cassandra and Blackwall were swept up along with her. The warriors kept Corypheus's shades occupied while Cecily and Solas concentrated their magic on the Darkspawn magister—but it would all be for nothing if they could not kill his dragon.

Morrigan fought valiantly in dragon form, and for a moment Cecily was sure she would win. But suddenly the sorceress was restored to her human form, and falling. She struck the ground with a sickening thud and lay terrifyingly still.

" _Morrigan_!" Cecily screamed.

"We must kill the dragon!" Cassandra yelled, tugging at her arm as the beast landed nearby.

With one last, agonized look back at her strange ally, Cecily ran to face Corypheus's archdemon.

They defeated it, but at a cost. Blackwall's leg was broken, and neither Solas nor Cecily could heal it quickly enough to return him to the battle. They returned to face Corypheus but Cassandra fell to one of his shades, a gory hole torn through her armor. Another shade seized Cecily's right arm and wrenched her elbow; she felt it break, and her staff fell from her numb fingers as she lit the creature on fire. A moment later, a blast of Corypheus's magic sent Solas flying against a wall.

Alone—as she had known she would be, somehow—Cecily turned to face Corypheus.

Her enemy only seemed half aware that she was there. Power was surging through the elven orb, crackling red and green, clearly unstable—clearly beyond his control.

"Not like this!" hissed the magister, finally looking at her, his eyes angry, desperate.

Cecily's breath caught in wonder—and hope. _He's afraid._

 _He should be_ , she told herself grimly, clenching her left hand tight.

Power flowed through the anchor and Cecily _pulled_ , only half understanding what she was doing. The orb shot out of Corypheus's hands and into hers, and she raised it to the sky, as if giving it an offering. The new rift responded, welcoming the orb's power, embracing it and using its magic to heal itself.

When the sky was knit back together and the orb was spent, Cecily set the artifact gently on the ground. Corypheus fell to his knees, his twisted face shocked, empty. She felt strangely weightless as she looked at him. She had hated this creature for so many long months, hated him for what she'd seen at Redcliffe, for the lives lost at Haven, at Adamant, in the Arbor Wilds—but now she felt her hatred ebb away, leaving only relief.

"It is over," she said simply.

Then she drew again on the anchor and sent its power surging through Corypheus, wound its magic through his limbs and chest and skull, and used it to shatter his now-mortal form.

* * *

Somehow, miraculously, they were all alive.

Solas had escaped without even a concussion. Cassandra's wound was ugly, but could be healed. Blackwall had managed to maneuver out of the way of the falling rubble. Morrigan was by far the most seriously wounded, but she, too, was alive when the Temple of Sacred Ashes fell back to the ground.

Cecily was so elated that at first she could not understand why Solas looked so agonized—why he was staring at a few broken rocks. Then she remembered. The orb.

It had been destroyed when the Temple fell.

Real grief was etched over every line of the elf's face. "I'm so sorry, Solas," Cecily said, cradling her broken arm.

"It was not supposed to happen like this," Solas whispered. "But it was not your fault." He looked at her sorrowfully. "No matter what comes, I want you to know that you shall always have my respect."

"Solas, what _exactly_ was the orb?" Cecily asked, quiet suspicion bubbling in her chest.

Solas's answer—if he had intended to give one—was lost in the commotion as the rest of their people ran to find them.

"I knew a flying temple wasn't _nearly_ weird enough to kill you," Varric chortled. Then he got a better look at her and winced. "Um, Inquisitor? I don't think your arm is supposed to bend that way."

"It is not. But under the circumstances I don't think I'll complain," Cecily said, laughing shakily. Then she winced too—apparently she had also broken a rib. "My injuries will keep until we return. Blackwall and Cassandra and Morrigan need help."

Without another word the group was sweeping over the Temple ruins to collect their injured comrades. The Iron Bull lifted Cassandra in his massive arms; it was a testament to how badly she'd been hurt that she only objected a little. Sera and Cole pulled Blackwall to his feet and supported the warrior's form between them. To Cecily's shock, Morrigan rose and stepped forward under her own power; her hand was pressed to her side and she moved with a limp, but she was nowhere nearly as badly off as Cecily had expected. _Perhaps the dragon was not the only secret in the Well of Sorrows._

Morrigan caught her eyes and gave her something like a smile. "Victorious, I see! How novel."

Cecily smiled back at her. "Thanks in no small part to you, Lady Morrigan. Are you all right?"

"I am not, but I shall be. It was … extraordinary," she said, looking up to the sky. Cecily wondered what it was like to remember yourself as a dragon, what it was like to have such ancient magic suffused throughout your being.

Her eyes sought Solas—if anyone would be interested in the question, it would be him. The elf, however, was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Cullen had a small force ready to march from Skyhold within the hour. They were halfway down the path to Haven when he saw the Temple of Sacred Ashes rise in the sky—and were nearly there when the rift closed and the Temple fell back to the earth.

He took a shuddering breath and continued leading the soldiers' march towards Haven. What else could he do? He tried to convince himself that the rift's closure was a good sign, that Cecily must have triumphed—but what had the victory cost?

He saw The Iron Bull first. The Qunari was moving quickly up the path, an injured Cassandra in his arms. Cullen called back for the healers, who brought a stretcher forward to whisk the Seeker back to Skyhold's infirmary.

"Do not look at me like that. It is not _that_ bad," he heard Cassandra scold the healer as she was taken away.

"The Inquisitor?" Cullen asked Bull quietly, his heart in his throat.

The Iron Bull grinned at him. "Take a look for yourself, Commander."

Cullen turned his head back to the path. The Inquisitor's little group was walking around the bend, clustered together, looking rattled and battered but also elated.

At their head walked Cecily, arm in arm with Dorian, a brilliant grin threatening to split her face.

Cullen managed to avoid running to her; instead, he moved at a very brisk walk, smiling as he heard the cheers rise from the soldiers behind him. Dorian was not just there for reasons of camaraderie, he quickly realized. Cecily's right arm had been strapped against her chest with a belt and she was moving just a bit too slowly, just a bit too carefully. But she was _alive_.

Dorian winked at the Commander as he drew close. "I'll let you take things from here," he said, stepping aside so Cullen could take the Inquisitor's arm.

Everything and everyone else fell away as Cecily's weight settled against him.

"You're hurt," he said softly.

"But Corypheus is dead," she said, looking up at him, exhaustion and exultation fighting for control of her face. "It's _over_ , Cullen. And—and I came back," she added softly. "I suppose now I can tell you that I wasn't always sure I would."

Even though she was safe now, Cullen's chest still tightened. "I'm glad you decided to take my advice," he said, brushing her hair from her face.

"I don't know what happens after this," she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "There will be a new Divine, and Orlais will want to know how soon we'll be disbanding so Gaspard and Celene and Briala can be back at each others' throats, and …"

"And I don't care about anything other than you being alive," he interrupted. "You have a moment to breathe. Take it."

She leaned her head against his shoulder and laughed quietly. "I will if you do."

"For you? I'll try," he whispered back.


	40. Chapter 40

Samson could hear the cheering even in his cell, and he knew what it meant.

He should feel regret, he supposed. Regret that he had bound himself to a failed cause, again; perhaps regret that his master had perished. Instead, he merely felt empty. He wondered how long the celebration would go on, and whether anyone would remember he was there.

To his surprise, when the guard came with Samson's next meal, the Inquisitor was trailing behind him, her arm bound in a sling.

"Here to gloat?" he asked, setting his food down on his cot and looking the Inquisitor in the eye. "Corypheus is dead, isn't he?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "Cullen thought you ought to know." Her mouth twitched a bit. "And I thought he shouldn't have to be the one to tell you."

"I didn't think anything else could cause this much obnoxious celebrating. I suppose now you'll send me to Kirkwall," Samson said. "With my master gone I'm of no use to your Inquisition."

The Inquisitor shook her head. "Your sentence stands, Samson. You are remarkably resistant to red lyrium. Perhaps our arcanist will discover something that could help the other Red Templars recover their minds." She looked at him closely, scrutinizing his reaction. "I would hope that goal might appeal to you."

"What do you want from me, Herald?" Samson snarled. "Half of Thedas bows before your Inquisition, and the other half fears that it will have to. Will you really not be satisfied unless I bend my knee to you as well? You've won. I admit it. Now leave me be."

"Cullen told me why Meredith cast you out of the Order. You carried love letters for Maddox," she said. "Why? Did he offer you coin? Lyrium?"

"I was not always that pathetic," Samson said bitterly. "I … felt sorry for him. It seemed such a small thing to ask, a few letters to his sweetheart in Kirkwall to let her know he'd survived his Harrowing. So I took them."

"You did a kind thing and it cost you terribly," she said, her voice quiet. "I'm sorry."

"I don't need your pity, Inquisitor," he growled.

"I suppose not," she replied evenly. "Dagna will be by in the next couple of days. You might still do some good, Samson. I hope you believe that."

Samson merely snorted and turned to his lunch. When he looked over, the Inquisitor was gone.

* * *

Cecily never quite got the moment to breathe that Cullen had suggested. Even with Corypheus dead, the Inquisition did not lack for work to do. Some rifts remained, some cells of Red Templars were still fighting their lost battle, and the Inquisition had acquired a reputation for knowing how to deal with dragons.

But things at the Inquisition were changing. Solas was gone; Leliana had little hope that they could trace him if he did not want to be found. Cecily had the fragments of the orb passed to their most skilled scholars. Something about this artifact had caused Solas to leave, and she suspected it had been for good reason. But not even Morrigan had a good idea of what the orb had been, other than the repository of the power that had opened the rifts. And Solas's cryptic final message to Cole—something about a path he must walk in solitude—did little to put her mind at ease.

Blackwall was the next to leave. "I would fight at your side as long as you would have me, my lady. But I feel that perhaps it is time for me to go to the Wardens," he told her gravely about a month after Corypheus's death. Cecily bade him goodbye with sincere thanks. Two weeks later, Sera had a letter from him—he had survived the Joining and was settling in at Amaranthine. He'd signed the letter _Thom_.

Cassandra hoped to rebuild the Seekers of Truth and was beginning to make contact with the few survivors of Lord Seeker Lucius's madness. Vivienne wanted to return to Orlais—"it was very bold of you to force those three to work together, darling, but we'll need a strong hand in Val Royeaux to keep things moving along." Varric, too, began talking about returning to Kirkwall. Aveline had finally ousted Sebastian Vael—with some quiet assistance from the Inquisition—and he wanted to help put his city back in order. Cecily wondered if Kirkwall's Champion might be able to return as well, but Varric just smiled and said nothing except, "Hawke's hard to predict."

And then the news arrived that Leliana had been chosen as the new Divine. The Inquisition had exercised its influence to bring this about, and Cecily knew Leliana would guide the Chantry down a more open and tolerant path, but she was still saddened at the thought of the spymaster no longer being in her tower, of losing the friendly, gossipy dinners with her and Josephine.

Other things stayed the same, however. Josephine continued to make Thedas's nobles dance at her every smile and thank her for making them do it. Dorian told her he would not be returning to Tevinter for some time, "as it lacks the presence of my best and only friends." The Iron Bull seemed content to have his Chargers stay in the Inquisition's employ—although Cecily privately wondered how much of that was about the Inquisition, and how much was about Dorian. Cole and Sera stayed as well, Cole because they were still helping people, Sera because she had no place else to be (or at least, that was what she told Cecily).

And, of course, Cullen remained by her side, solid and strong, still dedicated to the Inquisition's forces and determined to see them do good. Cecily was still not sure what the Inquisition could or should become after Corypheus's death—what her anchor would mean when the last of the rifts were closed. But at least she was certain of one thing. She was certain of him.

* * *

The night before Leliana was to depart for her coronation as Divine Victoria, Varric called them all together for another game of Wicked Grace.

To no one's surprise, Leliana rivaled and arguably surpassed Josephine's mastery of the game. Four or five hands in, Varric pointed out that the spymaster seemed to be playing cards she could not possibly have been dealt. Leliana merely smiled and told a very amusing story about how the Hero of Ferelden had bested a pirate in Wicked Grace by stealing a card straight from her hand.

This led to a round of story-telling by all at the table. Varric told a tale about how Hawke had once invited Carta assassins to play cards with her. The Iron Bull had a story about an Orlesian noblewoman that was so outrageous it almost brought a blush to _Leliana's_ cheeks. To her slight mortification, Cecily found herself telling everyone exactly what had happened the night of her Harrowing, including the rabbit.

"That is scandalous! If anyone found out, the Inquisition would be ruined," Josephine said. "Tell it again."

"Absolutely not," Cecily laughed. "Also, I fold."

"Commander?" Leliana asked, her eyes dancing. "You are out of coin, but you could remain in the game if you wagered your shirt."

"I fold," Cullen said immediately. Dorian and Josephine both sighed in disappointment.

"Glad to see you learned your lesson, Curly," Varric chortled. "So, Sister Nightingale. What's going to be your first act as Divine?"

Leliana's response was immediate. "I am going to reform the way the Chantry treats mages. Those with magic will no longer be held as prisoners within Circles of Magi. They will be able to serve the Maker in many ways. They will even be permitted to marry," she said, with a sly glance over at Cullen and Cecily. She laughed when she saw their expressions. "I will miss watching the two of you blush in unison," she teased.

"We'll miss you too, Leliana," Cecily said feelingly.

Several hours later, the game finally broke up, and Cecily and Cullen walked out of the tavern together.

"It will be strange to meet at the war map without Leliana there," Cecily said softly as they crossed the courtyard.

"It will indeed," Cullen agreed. "But I think she will do well as Divine."

Cecily slid her left hand through the crook of his elbow. "I will miss you while I'm away at the coronation."

"I will miss you as well." Cullen paused; he pulled her to a halt and turned to face her. "I … I've actually been thinking. We spend most nights together when you're in Skyhold. While you're away, perhaps I should move my things into your chambers. Or perhaps not," he said quickly, when she did not reply right away. "It was a silly thought, I'm perfectly content to stay where I am."

Cecily finally found her voice. "Don't you dare," she said, sliding her right hand into his left. "It's a splendid idea."

Cullen smiled down at her. "Good. I was lying about being perfectly content to sleep apart from you," he admitted.

Cecily laughed and rose on her toes to kiss him. "I am very glad to hear that," she murmured as he pulled her close.


End file.
